%. 



I PR 4149 
,B5 S5 
Copy 1 



• * 



T : 




{LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.} 



^G/,.?'R 41 va { 



•J O J 



£ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, f 



SKETCHES 



AND 



FRAGMENTS. 



BY 
THE AUTHOR OF 



« THE MAGIC LANTERN." 



Sketches sometimes possess an interest that is often not to 
be found in more finished performances. 

Critique on the Art of Painting. 



SECOND EDITION. 
LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR 

LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, 

PATERNOSTER- ROW. 

1823. 






London : 
Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode, 

New Street. Square. 



PREFACE. 



When " The Magic Lantern" was 
laid before the public, it was deemed 
too trifling to require a preface. The 
present little volume might for the 
same reason appear without one, did 
not the animadversions to which that 
bagatelle has given rise, render it ne- 
cessary to disclaim the personal satire 
attributed to the sketches it contains. 
Had personality been the author's 
aim, London offers so many highly 
a 2 



IV PREFACE. 

coloured pictures, which to be known 
need only to be seen, that the most 
unskilful artist might succeed in giving 
copies, whose resemblance would strike 
every beholder; but as general, and not 
personal satire was the object in view, 
it is a source of regret, that the shadows 
reflected in " The Magic Lantern" 
have been considered as likenesses of 
persons, of whose very existence the 
author was almost ignorant. 

This proves the truth of the senti- 
ment ill Gay's song : — 

" When you censure the age, 

Be cautious and sage,* 
Lest the courtiers offended should be; 

If you mention vice or bribe, 

Tis so pat to all the tribe, 
Each cries — that was levelled at me." 



PREFACE. V 

Of the present little volume, the 
author knows not what to say. Its 
contents are strictly what its- title de- 
signates them — Sketches and Frag- 
ments. Wentworth was commenced 
while " The Magic Lantern" was in 
the press, and ere its author was aware 
of the danger of sketching even ima- 
ginary characters. But now, fearful 
of treading on ground where every 
step may be deemed an encroachment 
on a neighbour, it is doubtful whether 
the story will ever be finished, and 
therefore it takes its place in this 
volume as a fragment. The author 
dares scarcely indulge a hope, that the 
trifles which compose the present work 



VI TREFACE. 

will please; but as they do not contain 
any allusions, that can be considered 
personal, it may reasonably be hoped 
that they will not offend. 

\%h June, 1822. 



CONTENTS. 










PAGE 


Blighted Hopes .... 


- 


1 


Marriage - - - - 


- 


12 


The Ring 


- 


35 


Journal of a Week of a Lady of Fashion 


- 


52 


An Allegory - 


- 


72 


Fastidiousness of Taste - 


- 


80 


Coquetry - 


- 


85 


Egotism - - 


- 


87 


Reflections - 


- 


95 


Sensibility - 


- 


96 


Friendship - - 


- 


99 


Wentworth - 


- 


102 


True Love - 


- 


127 


The Dying Invalid ... 


- 


159 


Passion and Sentiment, an Allegory 


- 


144 


The Abode of Memory ... 


- 


147 


A Tribute to Friendship 


- 


150 


Fragments - 


- 


154 



BLIGHTED HOPES. 



It was on a lovely evening towards the end 
of July, that we approached the village of 
Effingham. My friends, Lord and Lady 
Merton, their lovely invalid daughter, and 
myself, occupied a large family coach, which 
was followed by another containing the do- 
mestics. The sun was setting in all the 
magnificence of a summer's sky, and every 
object, even to the pallid cheek of the lan- 
guid Ellen, was tinged with his golden rays. 
I saw her close her eyes, and put one hand 
over them, as if to shut out the cheering 



BLIGHTED HOPES. 



beams that so ill accorded with her feelings ; 
and my heart bled at the conviction, that one 
so young, so lovely, and so loved, was in- 
sensible to all emotions but those of grief; — 
that sorrow had chilled her warm bosom, 
and nipt the roses of health which had so 
lately bloomed on her now death-like cheek. 
We proceeded slowly along, the afflicted 
parents watching with agonized anxiety the 
countenance of their only child, who occa- 
sionally, when gleams of returning conscious- 
ness rendered her sensible of their anguish, 
expressed, by a gentle pressure of their hands 
to her heart or lips, or a look that spoke 
more eloquently than words, the sense which 
she felt of their affection. 

We now approached the church-yard, 
and all our fears were excited, dreading the 
effect which its appearance might produce 



BLIGHTED HOPES. 3 

upon Ellen. A few weeks before, her be- 
trothed husband was consigned to the silent 
grave in this very cemetery, and the family 
mausoleum was close to the road. The dis- 
consolate parents appeared afraid to breathe, 
lest they should disturb the mourner from a 
fit of abstraction into which she had fallen a 
few minutes before ; when, at the very 
moment we reached the spot, she bent 
forward, extended her hands towards the 
mausoleum, and uttering one heart-piercing 
shriek, fell back, fainting in the arms of her 
mother. 

Three short months before, I accompanied 
the same group to London. The parents 
were then happy in the prospect of bestow- 
ing their only child on the object of her long 
cherished affection, — an object not less their 
choice than hers. The lovely Ellen was 
b 2 



4 BLIGHTED HOPES. 

then blooming, beautiful, and gay, and ani- 
mated with joyful anticipations of meeting her 
future husband. Every mile we travelled 
brought her nearer to the object of her love : 
and well do I remember the suffusion of her 
cheek, when bantered by her doating, happy 
father, on the visible exhilaration of her spirits. 
Happy herself, how did she by a thousand 
nameless graces and kindnesses, endeavour 
to extend the sunshine of her own pure 
breast. I looked at her, and beheld her 
radiant with innocence, and joy, and beauty; 
and I fancied, that had a Lawrence seen her, 
he would have immortalized himself and her, 
by pourtraying her as the personification of 
Hope ; for never surely had the bright- 
eyed enchantress a more lovely represent- 
ative. 

When we arrived in Grosvenor-square, 



BLIGHTED HOPES. o 

the lover was at the door, with all a lover's 
impatience marked in his eager glance and 
sparkling eyes : while her first look of rap- 
ture was succeeded by a more chastened and 
timid, though not less tender manner. 

Days succeeded days, which, though min- 
gled with the oft-repeated eludings of the im- 
petuous lover at the " law's delay," were still 
days of happiness. Tender attentions, bridal 
preparations, plans for future enjoyments and 
present amusements, enriched and varied each 
day, until the long-wished-for one was named 
that was to unite them. But four days prior to 
that which was to consummate their happiness, 
the lover was seized with an illness, which he 
considered a slight cold, and neglected, being 
unwilling to absent himself even for a few 
hours from his mistress : the second day he 
was unable to leave his bed; and the third 

B 3 



6 BLIGHTED HOPES. 

his illness was pronounced past hope — past 
cure ; — the fourth, — that day for which he 
had so ardently longed, as the goal of his 
happiness, — he was a corpse. 

For many days insanity, caused by a violent 
brain-fever, banished from poor Ellen's mind 
all sense of her misfortune and sorrow. In 
all the wanderings of distempered fancy, her 
lover was never for a moment absent from 
her thoughts; she called on him in the ten- 
derest accents, addressed him with all the 
fervour of affection, and again and again im- 
plored him not to leave her couch while she 
slept; for that he alone could shield her from 
some unknown enemy, that pressed her fore- 
head with a burning hand. 

By slow degrees Reason resumed her em- 
pire; but it was visible that Health had for 
ever fled. Her first request to her sorrow- 



BLIGHTED HOPES. 

ing, heart-stricken parents, was to take her to 
Merton Park. Oh ! what a contrast is there 
between this melancholy return and our 
happy journey three short months ago ! 
Our hearts were then cheered by Hope ; but 
now, Hope is banished, and Resignation to 
the will of Him, " who chasteneth whom 
he loveth can alone enable them to bow to 

His dispensation." 

% % % % % % 

At length the lovely and gentle Ellen is 
released from her sorrows; and her pure soul 
has fled to those regions of bliss, where tears 
are dried and grief endureth no more. 1 this 
day beheld her pale corse consigned to " the 
narrow house," and I now see from my 
window the moon's silver beams reflected on 
the mausoleum that inurns her. 

For three days after our arrival she lin- 
b 4 



8 BLIGHTED HOPES. 

gered between life and death. A few hours 
before she breathed her last, she became 
conscious of her situation, and hailed her ap- 
proaching death as a release from hopeless, 
cureless anguish. A faint smile, the first 
that had appeared since her lover's decease, 
played on her pallid lips, but was soon chased 
away by observing the unuttered and unutter- 
able grief of her parents. For a few minutes 
she regarded them with looks of fondest, 
pitying love ; and with all the daughter in 
her eyes, " the big tears chasing each other 
down" her pale cheek, as their sorrow and 
desolation at her loss glanced over her mind, 
she wept for some time with uncontrollable 
emotion; and, alternately turning to each, 
as they jointly supported her, tremulously 
clasped them in her embrace. But the God 
of Mercy, " who tempereth the wind to the 



BLIGHTED HOPES. 9 

shorn lamb," soon restored a saintly calm to 
the dying Ellen. 

She seemed inspired with more than mortal 
eloquence, while addressing her unhappy 
parents, and soothing their minds into 
resignation at her approaching fate, she 
begged to be taken to the window, that she 
might once more behold the fair face of 
nature, and view the spot where she was so 
soon to be laid beside him whom she had so 
fondly loved. 

We bore her couch to the window, and 
for a moment the fresh air seemed to revive 
her. The sun was rising with a splendour 
that gave the promise of a glorious day, and 
all nature seemed waking into life and 
gladness : she looked towards that brilliant 
luminary for a few moments in silence, and 
then exclaimed^ " Ah ! long before that 



10 BLIGHTED HOPES. 

bright orb sinks in the west, the vital spark 
that animates this frail form shall become 
extinct ; never, never again shall those eyes 
behold the refulgent sun, nor shall I bask 
beneath his cheering beams. Those woods 
and hills, on which so oft I have delighted to 
gaze ; yon river, by whose banks I have so 
often strayed, that dewy lawn, over which my 
careless feet have so often wandered, — I 
shall never again behold. That sun will 
again rise in all his wonted splendour, and 
this lovely landscape will still retain its 
charms, but I — I shall be insensible to 
all ." Here her sweet countenance be- 
came clouded with sorrow, and a few natural 
tears rolled down her cheek : but turning 
to the point that commanded a view of the 
village church, whose spire the rays of the 
sun were now irradiating, she ceased to 



BLIGHTED HOPES. 11 

weep ; and raising her almost transparent 
hand, said, " There, there, by his side let me 
be laid ; and now, oh my loved parents, pray 
that your child may meet death with the 
composure and piety of a Christian." 

She held a hand of each parent ; while with 
her eyes closed, as if to shut out all earthly 
objects, she prayed with fervour. She ap- 
peared exhausted, and her voice became 
less articulate. A gentle sleep seemed to steal 
over her : but it was the sleep of death ; for 
breathing one soft sigh, she resigned her soul 
into the hands of her Creator. 



12 



MARRIAGE. 



Prudence and benevolence are the 
qualities most likely to promote happiness 
in the marriage state ; but what can be ex- 
pected except disappointment and repentance 
from a choice made in the immaturity of 
youth — without j udgment — without foresight 
— without enquiry after conformity of opini- 
ons — rectitude of principle, or purity of 
sentiment ?" 

Hymen, thy chain is galling when it binds 
Unsuited hearts, and ill-assorted minds. 

" Never, never can I give my hand where 
my whole heart does not accompany it," ex- 



MARRIAGE. 13 

claimed the animated and sensitive Louisa 
to her friend, Mrs. Delamere, who had been 
advising her to accept, or at least to take 
into consideration, the proposal of Mr. Beau- 
mont, made a few days before. 

" If, by that warm expression, you mean 
that you will never marry any man for whom 
you do not feel a decided preference, I ap- 
prove of your determination," said her 
friend ; " but, my dear Louisa, I fear that it 
means more, and that you must, as the modern 
phrase is, fall in love, before you can bring 
yourself to think of marriage. The very ex- 
pression denotes a degradation ; as in John- 
son we find one of the definitions of the 
verb to fall is, c to enter into any state worse 
than the former.' Our Hibernian neigh- 
bours have improved the mode of expression, 
by calling it c tumbling into love ;' but, to be 



14 MARRIAGE. 

serious, how unfit is a person in love lo form 
a just estimate of the character, principles, 
pursuits, and tastes, of the object of affec- 
tion, as it is allowed that no veil is so im- 
penetrable as that of love ; though, when once 
removed, every blemish is rendered painfully 
obvious." 

" All this may be correct, my dear friend," 
replied Louisa ; " but there is no reasoning 
on affairs of the heart." This was said with 
a tone and emphasis that showed Louisa's 
wish to end the argument ; and so the subject 
concluded. Mr. Beaumont was refused the 
next day ; and in a short time after, Louisa, 
throwing herself into the arms of her friend, 
hid her blushing face in her bosom, and told 
her that she was now the happiest of women, 
for that Lord Tynedale, who had long been 
the object of her admiration, had declared 



MARRIAGE. 15 

his passion, and was a suitor for her 
hand. Mrs. Delamere knew little of Lord 
Tynedale, but that little led her to believe 
he was unsuited to form the happiness of 
her friend ; and she therefore pointed out the 
necessity of caution and length of acquaint- 
ance, before entering a state that was un- 
alterable, and on w T hich the comfort or misery 
of Louisa's life would depend. But Louisa 
having, as she emphatically expressed it, 
fallen in love, would hear no arguments that 
militated against her wishes ; and being her 
own mistress, she soon became the wife of 
Lord Tynedale. 

" The happy pair," according to newspaper 
phraseology, left town immediately after the 
ceremony was performed, for the Grove, one 
of the seats of the bridegroom ; and during 
the honey-moon, Mrs. Delamere heard fre- 



16 MARRIAGE. 

quently from her friend, who pronounced her 
dear Tynedale the most charming of men, and 
herself the happiest of women. By degrees 
the wife became much less rapturous in her 
praises of her husband, and shortly after 
complained of the dulness of the country, 
the want of society, and, above all, the want 
of complaisance in Lord Tynedale, and re- 
quested that her friend would take compas- 
sion on her forlorn state, and pay her a visit. 
Mrs. Delamere, who felt deeply interested in 
Lady Tynedale's happiness, determined on 
accepting the invitation, and in a few days 
after set off for the Grove. She found her 
friend pale, languid, and dispirited, with 
scarcely a vestige of her former animation ; 
and the first moment they were alone, and 
free from interruption, Lady Tynedale, with 
a torrent of tears, declared herself the most 



MARRIAGE. 17 

deceived and wretched of her sex ; and again 
and again deplored that she had not attended 
to her friend's counsels. Lord Tynedale, 
she said, was cold, unfeeling, and tasteless, 
and possessed not a single ray of genius, or 
talent. They had no sentiments or pursuits 
in common, and his society was irksome to 
her. He saw that she was tired to death of 
the Grove, and yet he seemed insensible to 
all her often reiterated wishes to leave it. 

Mrs. Delamere soothed her with kind words, 
but declined giving any opinion on so delicate 
a point until she had an opportunity of judg- 
ing by Lord Tynedale's conduct, how far the 
causes of complaint were well-founded. She 
was grieved, though not surprised, at hearing 
so lamentable an account, and gently remind- 
ing her friend of her former observation, that 
when the veil of love was removed, every 
c 



18 MARRIAGE. 

error was magnified, she asked what was 
the deception her friend alluded to when 
she stated herself to be the most deceived of 
women. This question produced fresh emo- 
tion in Lady Tynedale, who rejoined, " Did 
he not appear to sympathize in all my tastes, 
take an interest in every thing that I said or 
did, and appear to live only for me ? He was 
never happy out of my sight, and his sole 
study was to please me ; while now he seems 
only intent on pursuing his own gratification, 
wholly regardless of mine." 

" But are you quite sure," replied Mrs. 
Delamere, " that there was no deception 
practised on your side ; no exaggeration of 
feeling ; no professions of being passionately 
fond of the country : in short, did you not 
lead him to believe that his views in life 
entirely assimilated with your own ?" 



MARRIAGE. 19 

The heightened colour on the cheek of 
Lady Tvnedale betraved a little indignation, 
as well as consciousness of the truth of this 
statement : but she would not plead guilty, 
as she persisted in saying, i5 she would still 
have preferred the country to town, provided 
her husband had still continued the lover." 

Lord Tvnedale, though a well-bred man, 
possessed a naturalness of manner that ren- 
dered it difficult for him to conceal his senti- 
ments. It was plain to Mrs.Delamere, that in 
her he expected a harsh critic of his domestic 
conduct, and this produced in his deportment a 
degree of coldness that made him appear in no 
very favourable point of view. Still the most 
minute observation could discover nothing 
more than coldness to find fault with, and it 
was evident to Mrs. Delamere that this was 
more assumed than natural: and probably 
c 2 



20 MARRIAGE. 

had its origin in disappointment and pique. 
He appeared of a serious turn, fond of study 
and rural occupations, well-informed, but 
wanting imagination, and that refined tone 
of high feeling, which, had they been pos- 
sessed, would have led him to appreciate, 
or sympathize with his wife's sensibility 
and warmth of heart. He seemed in- 
sensible to the dejection which she fre- 
quently betrayed; and equally so to the 
brilliant sallies in which she occasionally in- 
dulged, whenever former scenes and com- 
panions were the topic of conversation ; and 
yet Mrs. Delamere soon became convinced 
that this apparent insensibility was not caused 
by any want of affection for Lady Tynedale, but 
was partly produced by dissatisfaction at her 
visible want of deference to his opinions, and 
her turn for ridicule. When Lady Tynedale's 
beautiful face was clouded with an air of 



MARRIAGE. 21 

pensive melancholy, that she thought irre- 
sistible, he studiously avoided looking at her, 
which provoked her beyond all endurance, 
and she endeavoured to draw Mrs. Dela- 
mere's attention to these personal slights 
whenever they occurred. But when she gave 
utterance to some stroke of poignant satire that 
she deemed certain of extracting applause, 
his face of immovable gravity enraged her 
beyond the power of controlling her temper ; 
and on such occasions not all the beseeching 
looks of her friend could prevent her sarcastic 
observations on dull people who could not 
understand a joke, nor discover the point of 
an epigram. 

Weary of witnessing irritations that ap- 
peared to increase every day, and finding 
that advice was quite lost on her friend, 
Mrs. Delamere bade adieu to the Grove, 
c 3 



22 MARRIAGE. 

much to the regret of its mistress ; and Lord 
Tynedale, who had lately begun to discover 
her excellent qualities, cordially pressed her 
to extend her visit, though he acknowledged, 
and a sigh escaped him while he did so, 
that the society at the Grove was so triste, 
that it had no attractions to induce her to 
prolong her stay. 

Mrs. Delamere longed to speak to him on 
the subject next her heart, and to point out 
how much his coldness offended her friend, 
but delicacy and a dread of being thought to 
interfere, closed her lips, and she left the 
Grove with a painful conviction that its 
owners had little prospect of happiness, 
unless a total change took place in their 
views and conduct, and of this she saw no 
immediate probability. 

As she pursued her journey to town, her 



MARRIAGE. 23 

mind reverted to the scene which she had 
lately witnessed ; she reflected on the many 
amiable points in the disposition and character 
of Lord and Lady Tynedale, the affection 
she was sure they entertained for each other, 
the large fortune they possessed, with the 
enlarged means of doing good which it gave 
them, and she sighed to think that with so 
many blessings, they embittered their lives 
by a want of forbearance to the feelings of 
each other, and by both forming too high 
expectations of happiness. Experience had 
proved to Mrs. Delamere, that perfect hap- 
piness is not the lot of man, and she 
felt the truth of those exquisite lines of 
Sheridan, — 

" True happiness is not the growth of earth, 
The toil is fruitless if you seek it there, 
'Tis an exotic of celestial birth. 
And never blooms but in celestial air. 
c 4 



24 MARRIAGE. 

Sweet flow'r of Paradise — thy seeds are sown 
In, here and there, a mind of heavenly mould, 
It rises slow, and buds — but ne'er was known 
To blossom here. — The climate is too cold." 

Shortly after her return from the Grove, 
Mrs. Delamere was obliged to leave England 
with her sister, whose health was in a declin- 
ing state, and who was ordered to try the effect 
of the milder clime of the south of France. 
Prior to her departure, she addressed a 
long letter to Lady Tynedale, in which 
she pointed out the errors of her conduct, 
and forcibly impressed on her the necessity 
of forbearance ; and begged her not to slight 
the good within her reach, because it came 
in a less pleasing shape than she would have 
chosen. She earnestly recommended Lady 
Tynedale to abandon the romantic notion, that 
the husband should continue the devoted lover, 



MARRIAGE. 25 

and to consider, that though Lord Tynedale 
possessed many estimable qualities, he was not 
formed, either by nature or inclination, to act 
the hero of a novel. She told her, and she 
spoke from experience, that the first year of 
marriage is the trial, and that once over, 
reason, she hoped, would exert her influence. 
She reminded her, that the veil which had 
prevented her from discovering the imperfec- 
tions of Lord Tynedale in his days of court- 
ship, being now removed, all his faults were 
viewed as through a magnifying glass, and 
no allowance made for them, but that she 
felt confident, time and reason would correct 
the errors of youthful romance and inex- 
perience. 

Mrs. Delamere was absent tw T o years, 
during which time she occasionally heard 
from her friend ; but as she had requested 



26 MARRIAGE. 

that no matrimonial complaints might be 
alluded to in their correspondence, she could 
only give a guess, by the general air of 
cheerfulness that pervaded the letters, of the 
state of Lady Tynedale's feelings. 

During the first six months of her absence, 
the letters from the Grove were brief and 
moody : they were less gloomy the six fol- 
lowing; and occasional references were made 
to Lord Tynedale, that convinced Mrs. Dela- 
mere a change for the better had taken place 
in the domestic happiness of the Grove. On 
Mrs. Delamere's arrival in London, she was 
glad to find Lord and Lady Tynedale settled 
in town for the season ; and the visit they paid 
her the morning after her arrival, afforded 
her an opportunity of witnessing the good 
understanding that subsisted between them. 
Lady Tynedale's sweet countenance was all 



MARRIAGE. 27 

sunshine, and the warmth and cordiality that 
marked his Lordship's manner towards Mrs. 
Delamere, convinced her that he was a happy 
man, and that he looked on her as a true 
friend, and one of the promoters of his 
felicity. 

When Mrs. Delamere called in Grosvenor 
Square the next day, Lord Tynedale was from 
home ; and Lady T., glad of the opportunity 
of unbosoming herself to her friend, em- 
braced her again and again, and thanked her 
for the happiness which her good advice had 
procured her. " When we parted, my 
dearest friend," she exclaimed, " you left me 
the most disconsolate and discontented of 
women. My vanity mortified at finding my 
husband did not quite adore me, — and nothing 
short of adoration would satisfy my self-love, 
— instead of endeavouring to render myself 



28 MARRIAGE. 

more worthy of his affection, I immediately 
concluded that the fault was his, v ot mine ; 
and I gave way to peevishness, ill-nature, 
and satirical observations, taking eveiy means 
of showing him that I could be as cold and 
careless as I fancied he was. If he rode out 
to view any improvements that were going 
forward on his estate, I felt myself slighted ; 
if I accompanied him, I was dissatisfied if 
he thought of any thing but me. His visits 
to his old acquaintances also offended me ; 
and his taking up a book, or devoting him- 
self to his pen for an hour in the evening, 
gave me the greatest mortification. If I 
touched my harp or piano-forte, I expected 
him to fly to me, to lean over me with all 
the ecstatic delight of a lover, and to breathe 
nothing but raptures. Each day, each hour, 
my vanity received fresh wounds; and at 



MARRTAGE. 29 

each wound it became still more easily 
hurt. His commendations appeared to me 
cold and common -place when- compared, 
as they constantly were, with the re- 
membered inflated plaudits of former ad- 
mirers. In short, when I found that he 
could amuse himself for hours independently 
of me, I determined that as I could not be 
every thing to him, I would be nothing. I 
put on an air of coldness that was far from 
my real feelings, but w r hich effectually im- 
posed on him. I avoided his society; and, 
when in it, did all in my power to make him 
feel that I thought it irksome. This conduct 
fatigued and disgusted him ; and he began to 
consider me as a selfish, empty woman, who 
was completely dependent on society and 
admiration for happiness, and who, having 
no mental resources, could neither enjoy hap- 



30 MARRIAGE. 

piness herself nor contribute to the felicity 
of her husband. In this state you found us, 
and in the same unhappy condition you left 
us. Your letters first opened my eyes to my 
own folly; but for a long time my vanity 
struggled against the conviction that / was 
to blame. 

" To dispel the weariness of my solitude 
I took to reading; and having a dislike 
to novels, I read only the best authors. 
By degrees I began to find that the hours 
glided so swiftly by, that I never felt the 
least portion of that tedium and ennui that 
had before oppressed me. My mind was so 
occupied by the studies I was engaged in, that 
I ceased to remember my own grievances ; 
and I could now excuse the ardour and con- 
stancy with which Lord T. devoted him- 
self to reading. This produced a great 



MARRIAGE. 31 

improvement in my temper; and when my 
husband, as he frequently did, enquired with 
an air of interest what work I was perusing, 
I answered him with a kindness and com- 
placency that induced him to advert to the 
merits of the author, and I felt gratified by 
the good taste and discrimination which his 
observations displayed; and still more so at 
discovering that his sentiments often accorded 
with my own. I had sought reading as an 
avocation that would render me completely 
independent of Lord TVs society ; but I 
now found that it formed a new and strong 
link to draw us together. Our books were 
frequently laid down in an evening to discuss 
the beauties of some passage that pleased 
us ; and improving and rational conversation 
took the place of moody silence, or peevish 
remarks. I ceased to desire adulation, and 



32 MARRIAGE. 

felt my self-respect increased by the attention 
which Lord T. evinced to my observations. 
By degrees confidence was established be- 
tween us, and affection restored. Your let- 
ters of advice were now aided by my own 
feelings ; and happiness, pure, rational, do- 
mestic happiness, became our portion. How 
often have I felt the justice and truth of your 
sentiments on marriage, which experience 
has proved to me were founded on know- 
ledge of the world. Had I waited for a 
perfect acquaintance with Lord Tynedale's 
character and disposition, many hours of do- 
mestic discomfort would have been spared 
to me; but I bless God that those hours 
have been followed by days of happiness, 
that are cheaply purchased, even at such a 
price." 



33 



THE RING. 



Walking up St. James's Street a few days 
ago, I was attracted by some very beautiful 
specimens of bijouterie, displayed for sale in the 
window of a shop ; and seeing a very curious 
antique ring, set in diamonds, labelled for a 
sum that I fancied beneath its value, I was 
tempted to purchase it. Examining my bar- 
gain while sitting in my easy chair after dinner, 
I dropped asleep, as is my usual custom ; 
and the ring being the last subject of my 
thoughts, gave rise to the following dream. 
I thought that, while in the act of contem- 
plating my new purchase, it addressed me in 
the following manner — and, however unna- 

D 



34 THE RING. 

tural and improbable it may seem, that an 
inanimate object should be gifted with the 
power of speech, yet, with the usual inco- 
herence of a dream, all appeared to me per- 
fectly correct. 

" Do not undervalue me because this day I 
came into your possession for a comparatively 
trifling sum. Though you see me now with 
my lustre dimmed by age and want of care, 
time was that I wore a different aspect. In 
my fate you will see the lot of all sublunary 
grandeur, and I shall therefore relate to you 
my eventful history. 

" I was purchased in Rome, where I was exa- 
mined and admired by many a virtuoso ; but a 
young Englishman, on his travels, no sooner 
saw me than he wished to possess me. Doubt- 
ful, however, of his own skill as a connoisseur, 
he determined on consulting a person consi- 
dered a perfect judge in such matters ; and. 



THE RING. 35 

with all the unsuspicious openness of his 
countrymen, told my owner so. No sooner had 
he left the house, than my master hastened to 
the virtuoso that the Englishman had named as 
the arbiter of my destiny ; and having origi- 
nally demanded double my value, he now 
offered a handsome douceur to the antiquary, 
if he could, by his commendations, ensure 
my sale to the young amateur. Those two 
precious Romans soon came to a perfect 
understanding ; in a day or two the bargain 
was made, and I was consigned to the care 
of my new master. Though I disliked the 
cupidity of my late owner, and wished to 
leave him, still it was not without a pang that 
I bade adieu to the lovely cameos and intag- 
lios that had been so long my neighbours in 
the same drawer; and the precious antique 
gems that had been so often in close contact 
d 2 



36 THE RING. 

with me, never appeared to possess so many 
charms as in the moment in which I was torn 
from them for ever. My vanity, however, con- 
soled me for the separation; for it had been 
cruelly wounded by having overheard my 
crafty countryman say, that he had two Ioles, 
one on a beryl, and another on a sardonyx, 
both far superior to me, who am, as you per- 
ceive, an agate, and that he heartily wished 
me off his hands, as no one but an English- 
man would buy me. 

" My new master having looked at me 
with a carelessness that bespoke him as 
little interested as skilled in antiques, con- 
signed me to his writing-box : where I lay 
side by side with many other articles of 
virtu, and surrounded by all the gages 
d? amour with which he had been favoured 
since he left college. Here I lay for some 
time in inglorious obscurity ; for though my 



THE RING. 



prison was frequently opened, to draw from 
it a fresh supply of money, I remained un- 
noticed. At length, by finding my cage moved 
about, I guessed that a change in my destiny 
was taking place, and I soon discovered, 
by the rumbling motion and rude jolts which 
I experienced, that I was leaving my native 
city, the once proud and imperial capital of 
the world. I shall pass over the grief which 
this parting caused me ; nor shall I dwell 
on the desagremens that took place between 
my fellow-travellers and myself on the jour- 
ney: our careless master had bestowed so 
little attention in packing us, that we fre- 
quently experienced some of the unpleasant 
rubs of life. The glass that covered a 
portrait fell a victim to one of the quarrels, 
and some beautiful Roman shells were 
shattered into fragments. 
d 3 



38 THE RING. 

M We proceeded to Florence, and thence 
to Paris, where we took up our abode ; and 
we had not been long there, when I observed 
that my prison was never opened that my 
master did not exhibit certain symptoms of 
chagrin and impatience which boded something 
disagreeable. One day he seized my cage with 
a violence that threatened its annihilation, and 
flattered me with the hope of liberty : but 
the lock soon obeyed his hand; and from the 
frequent exclamations I heard him utter, of 
" Cursed fool !" " Stupid dupe P " Stingy 
father !" I guessed that something unusual 
had occurred, and I found he was writing 
to solicit from his father fresh supplies. 
His application failed of success, but brought 
him a recall. We soon bade adieu to Paris, 
and set out for England, — that country, of 
whose wealth I had heard so much, and 



THE RING. 39 

whose sons have been considered as the 
natural prey of the artful and designing. 

" The first gleam of light that visited me in 
England shone through the dusty panes of 
a window in the Custom- House at Dover ; 
where my prison was unceremoniously 
opened, and my companions and myself ex- 
posed to the view of a crowd of spectators, 
amidst a heap of clothes-bags, dressing-cases, 
portfeuilleS) portmanteaus, china, artiflcia 
flowers, &c. &c. &c. Never shall I forget the 
scene that presented itself to me. The looks 
of inexorable rigidity of the custom-house 
officers, — the pale faces of the owners of the 
various properties, which told a piteous tale of 
sufferings past, and from which they had not 
yet recovered. The soiled dresses, mis-shaped 
hats and bonnets, and uncurled ringlets fall- 
ing over languid cheeks, — showed the ladies 
d 4 



40 THE RING. 

in no very favourable point of view; while 
the unshorn chins, and rumpled neckcloths 
of the gentlemen, betrayed that they had not 
escaped the disasters of the briny element. 
Each individual stood close to his or her 
property; and all personal suffering appeared 
to be forgotten in the anxiety which they felt 
to recover their possessions from the ruthless 
fangs of the custom-house officers. One 
lady was declaring that a piece of fine Meek- 
lin lace, found in her band-box, was English 
manufacture ; and another was insisting that 
a piece of French silk, which was discovered 
peeping through her pocket-hole, was merely 
the lining of her dress. Innumerable female 
voices, all speaking together, were heard 
around, making confusion doubly confused ; 
while the gentlemen, who appeared less able 
to argue with the revenue-officers, contented 



THE RING. 41 

themselves with undervaluing their proper- 
ties, that the duties might be proportionally 
reduced. I made one reflection on the scene 
around me, which was, that the female sex 
are all addicted to dealing in contraband 
goods, or smuggling, as it was there called ; 
for out of above fifty ladies present, there 
was not one who did not endeavour to defraud 
the revenue. 

" After witnessing several animated con- 
tests, and countless seizures, it at length came 
to my turn to be examined; and I felt my 
dignity not a little offended by being taken 
up between the soiled finger and thumb of 
one of the inspectors, who, after viewing me 
for a moment, pronounced me English, which 
my master having with rather a disdainful 
smile tacitly admitted, I was restored to my 
old abode, and, with my companions, again 
huddled up in our narrow cell. 



42 THE RING. 

" The scene I had witnessed conveyed 
no favourable impression of England; and 
I could not help ejaculating to myself, 
Is this, then, that famed land of freedom 
of which I have so often heard; and 
whose laws, and protection of private pro- 
perty, are so frequently held up to ad- 
miration ? How prone are mankind to 
misrepresent, and exaggerate ; and how ill- 
governed must this same England be, and 
how defective its laws, when the goods for 
which an individual has paid his money, and 
which, of course, have become his property, 
are taken from him without even the civility 
of an excuse, and this by the very officers 
employed to carry their boasted laws into 
effect ! I made many more wise reflections 
on laws and governments, but of which, as 
they do not concern my history, I shall spare 



THE RING. 43 

you the recital ; let it suffice to say, that no 
where had I heard law and justice so vio- 
lently denounced as in an English custom- 
house : and there it was I first learned that 
they are not synonimous terms. 

" The motion of the vehicle, as we rolled 
along from Dover towards London, was so 
different from that to which I had hitherto 
been accustomed, that I concluded the roads 
in England to be much better, or that some 
peculiar excellence appertained to English 
horses or postillions. My travelling-com- 
panions and I agreed much better ; and 
during our journey from Dover to the me- 
tropolis, we maintained our equilibrium with 
perfect decorum, and had not a single 
rupture. 

" We arrived in the British capital on a fine 
evening in May; and I was the next morning 



44 THE RING. 

released from the narrow precincts of my 
prison, and consigned, with some other 
articles of virtu, to the fair sister of my 
master. She admired me extremely; but 
returned me to her brother, with the observ- 
ation, that he had better reserve me for the 
finger of a fair female friend of hers, to 
whom he was to be presented at dinner ; but 
to all his enquiries as to the name of this fair 
unknown, she declined giving any information. 
" I was placed on the dressing-table of 
my master, and could not help observing, 
that, when attiring himself for dinner this 
day, he bestowed more than his accustomed 
care in arranging his neckcloth, and giving 
his hair that careless waving flow so much 
admired by travelled beaus. I had hitherto 
fancied that the male sex were superior to 
the minor considerations of personal de- 



THE RING. 45 

corations ; but I now discovered that no 
blooming nymph of seventeen, at her first 
presentation, could have taken more pains in 
displaying her charms to the best advantage, 
than did my master on the present occasion. 
I felt considerable interest to know the result 
of his interview with the fair unknown, but 
had no means of gratifying my curiosity. I 
remarked, however, that from this eventful 
day, he appeared more than usually anxious 
to adorn his person to the best advantage ; 
and, at the end of a few weeks, I observed 
him draw a small turquoise ring from his 
finger, which he kissed with a rapture that 
excited my astonishment, mingled with in- 
dignation, that an ornament so inferior to 
myself could be so valued, while I was left 
whole weeks unnoticed on his dressing-table, 
or only casually touched by the housemaid 



46 THE RING. 

when arranging the room. At length I was 
one day taken up, and conveyed by my 
master to a celebrated jeweller, to whose care 
he consigned me, with particular injunctions 
to have me reset, encircled with diamonds, 
and made to the size of a very small gold 
ring which he left as a pattern. He gave 
innumerable directions, expressive of his 
anxiety to have me completed ; all of which 
convinced me that I was designed for the 
finger of some fair lady, and the unknown 
immediately occurred to my memory. The 
jeweller, whose only object was to incur as 
much expense to his employer as possible, 
encircled me with a row of brilliants, so large 
as nearly to hide my diminished head ; 
and having now all the appearance of a 
modern antique, I was restored to my 
master, and the next day was placed bv 



THE RING. 47 

him on one of the most snowy, taper fingers, 
in the world, as a guard to a plain gold ring 
that he had put on the same finger at 
St. George's church half an hour before, as 
I discovered by the conversation that fol- 
lowed the action. 

" My mistress seemed excessively pleased 
with me, and frequently raised her hand to 
arrange her hair or dress, and as frequently 
expressed her admiration of me, which not 
a little excited my vanity ; but my self-com- 
placency was much abated by discovering 
that she admired the diamonds that sur- 
rounded me more than myself, and my 
respect for her was much decreased by ascer- 
taining, from her observations, that she was 
totally unskilled in antiques. 

" For about a year I retained the post of 
honour with my new mistress ; but towards 



48 THE RING. 

the close of that period, I discovered a 
visible alteration in her : of which, as it 
affected her treatment of me, I took par- 
ticular notice. The first symptom I observed 
was a want of cordiality between her and my 
ci-devant master. Occasional differences took 
place between them, conducted on both sides 
with much warmth ; and I noticed that a 
male visitor, who was very assiduous in his 
attention, seemed to have taken a great 
fancy either to my mistress's hand or myself, 
for he frequently pressed both between his, 
and as frequently raised them to his lips, 
though gently reprimanded for it by the 
lady. At length, one day he removed 
me from the fair finger I had so long en- 
circled ; and then drawing off the plain gold 
ring that I had so faithfully guarded, replaced 
it by one of nearly a similar kind, and then 



THE RING, 49 

restored me to my former station, having 
consigned my old companion to his pocket. 

" I felt, or fancied that 1 felt, my mistress's 
hand agitated by a tremulous emotion, and 
a drop that, save from its warmth, I should 
have taken for crystal, at that moment fell on 
me, and was hastily brushed away by the 
lips of the gentleman. I felt indignant at 
being robbed of this liquid pearl, which to 
my prophetic soul appeared like the last 
memorial of departing purity, nor could I be 
reconciled to the new companion who had 
usurped the place of my old one, to which, 
habit, and its unobtrusive qualities, had en- 
deared me. The next day my mistress took 
advantage of the absence of her husband to 
elope with her lover, and though pressed by 
him to remove me for a ring of great beauty 
and value that he had provided as a sub- 



50 THE RING. 

stitutes, she expressed such a desire still to 
retain me, that, though with a visible degree 
of chagrin, he consented to permit me to 
occupy my old station, and placed his gift on 
a finger of the right hand. 

" I soon observed many symptoms of un- 
happiness in my mistress ; I was frequently 
bedewed with the tears that trickled down her 
pale cheek, as the hand to which I belonged 
supported it ; and the same hand was often 
pressed to her burning forehead, as if to still 
the throbbing pulse that agonized her there. 
By degrees the once snowy hand lost its fair- 
ness, and assumed a sickly yellow hue ; the 
once finely rounded taper finger which I had 
so closely encircled, shrunk from my embrace. 
Yet still my unhappy mistress seemed to wish 
to retain me, and by twisting several silken 
threads round me, she again secured me ; 



THE RING. 51 

but alas ! in a few days I felt an unusual 
coldness steal over the attenuated finger, 
which was succeeded by a rigidity that 
gave it the feel and semblance of marble." 
* * # # At this moment 

my servant, entering the room, awoke me, 
and interrupted a dream, the impression of 
which was so vivid, as to leave the traces of 
tears on my cheek. 



e 2 



52 



JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

OF A 

LADY OF FASHION. 



Monday. — Awoke with a head-ach, the 
certain effect of being bored all the evening 
before, by the never-dying strain at the 
Countess of Leyden's. Nothing ever was 
half so tiresome as musical parties : no one 
gives them except those who can exhibit 
themselves, and fancy they excel. If you 
speak, during the performance of one of their 
endless pieces, they look cross and affronted : 
except that all the world of fashion are there, 



JOURNAL OF A WEEK. &C 53 

I never would go to another; for, positively, 
it is ten times more fatiguing than staying at 
home. To be compelled to look charmed, 
and to applaud when you are half dead from 
suppressing yawns, and to see half-a-dozen 
very tolerable men, with whom one could 
have had a very pleasant chat, except for the 
stupid music, is really too bad. Let me see, 
what have I done this day? oh! I remember 
every thing went wrong, as it always does 
when I have a head-ach. Flounce, more 
than usually stupid, tortured my hair, and I 
flushed my face by scolding her. I wish 
people could scold without getting red, for it 
disfigures one for the whole day; and the 
consciousness of this always makes me more 
angry, as I think it doubly provoking in 
Flounce to discompose me, when she must 
know it spoils my looks. 
e 3 



54 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

Dressing from twelve to three. Madame 
Tornure* sent me a most unbecoming cap : 
mem. I shall leave her off when I have paid 
her bill. — Heigh-ho, — when will that be? — 
Tormented by duns, jewellers, mercers, milli- 
ners: — I think they always fix on Mondays 
for dunning: I suppose it is because they 
know one is sure to be horribly vapoured after 
a Sunday-evening's party, and they like to 
increase one's miseries. 

Just as I was stepping into my carriage, 
fancying that I had got over the desagremens 
of the day, a letter arrives to say, that my 
mother is very ill, and wants to see me: drove 
to Grosvenor Square in no very good humour 
for nursing, and, as I expected, found that 
Madame Ma Mere fancies herself much worse 
than she really is. Advised her to have dear 
Dr. Emulsion, who always tells people they 



OF A LADY OF FASHION. o5 

are not in danger, and who never disturbs his 
patient's mind with the idea of death until 
the moment of its arrival: found my sister 
supporting mamma's head on her bosom, and 
heard that she had sat up all night with her : 
by-the-bye, she did not look half so fatigued 
and ennuied as I did. They seemed both a 
little surprised at my leaving them so soon; 
but really there is no standing a sick room in 
May. My sister begged of me to come soon 
again, and cast a look of alarm (meant only 
for my eye) at my mother : I really think she 
helps to make her hyppish, for she is always 
fancying her in danger. Made two or three 
calls : drove in the Park : saw Belmont, who 
looked as if he expected to see me, and who 
asked if I was to be at the Duchess of Winter- 
ton's to-night. I promised to go — he seemed 
delighted. What would Lady Allendale say, 
e 4 



56 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

if she saw the pleasure which the assurance 
of my going gave him ? I long to let her see 
my triumph. Dined tete-a-tete — my lord 
very sulky — abused my friend Lady Win- 
stanley, purposely to pique me, — he wished 
me not to go out ; said it was shameful, and 
mamma so ill; just as if my staying at home 
would make her any better. Found a letter 
from Madame, the governess, saying that the 
children want frocks and stockings: — they 
are always wanting : — I do really believe 
thev w r ear out their things purposely to 
plague me. Dressed for the Duchess of 
Winterton's : wore my new Parisian robe of 
blonde lace, trimmed in the most divine way, 
with lilies of the valley. Flounce said I 
looked myself, and I believe there was some 
truth in it ; for the little discussion with my 
Caro had given an animation and lustre to 



OF A LADY OF FASHION. 57 

my eyes. I gave Flounce my puce-coloured 
satin pelisse as a peace-offering for the morn- 
ing scold. — The party literally full almost to 
suffocation. Belmont was hovering near the 
door of the anti-room, as if waiting my ap- 
proach : he said, I never looked so resplend- 
ent : — Lady Allendale appeared ready to die 
with envy — very few handsome women in the 
room — and still fewer well dressed. Looked 
in at Lady Calderwood's, and Mrs. Burnet's. 
Belmont followed me to each. Came home at 
half past three o'clock, tired to death, and had 
my lovely dress torn past all chance of repair, 
by coming in contact with the button of one of 
the footmen in Mrs. B.'s hall. This is very 
provoking, for I dare say Madame Tornure 
will charge abominably high for it. 

Tuesday. — Awoke in good spirits, having 
had delightful dreams : — sent to know how 



58 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

mamma felt, and heard she had a bad night : 
— must call there, if I can : — wrote Madame 
a lecture, for letting the children w r ear out 
their clothes so fast : Flounce says, they wear 
out twice as many things as Lady Wood- 
land's children. Read a few pages of Amelia 
Mansfield : very affecting : put it by for fear 
of making my eyes red. Lady Mortimer 
came to see me, and told me a great deal 
of scandal chit-chat: she is very amusing. — 
I did not get out until past five : too late then 
to go and see mamma. Drove in the Park, 
and saw Lady Litchfield walking : got out 
and joined her : the people stared a good 
deal. Belmont left his horse and came to us; 
he admired my walking dress very much. — 
Dined alone, and so escaped a lecture : — had 
not nerves sufficient to see the children : — 
they make such a noise, and spoil one's 



OF A LADY OF FASHION. 59 

clothes. Went to the Opera : wore my 
tissue turban, which has a good effect. Bel- 
mont came to my box, and sat every other 
visitor out. My lord came in, and looked, as 
usual, sulky. Wanted me to go away without 
waiting for the dear delightful squeeze of the 
round room. My lord scolded the whole 
way home, and said I should have been by 
the sick bed of my mother, instead of being 
at the Opera. I hummed a tune, which I 
find is the best mode of silencing him, and 
he muttered something about my being un- 
feeling and incorrigible. 

Wednesday. — Did not rise till past one 
o'clock, and from three to five was occupied 
in trying on dresses and examining new 
trimmings. Determined on not calling to 
see mamma this day, because if I found her 
much worse, I might be prevented from 



60 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

going to Almack's, which I have set my 
heart on : - — drove out shopping, and bought 
some lovely things : — met Belmont, who gave 
me a note w T hich he begged me to read at 
my leisure : — had half a mind to refuse 
taking it, but felt confused, and he w T ent 
away before I recovered my self-possession : 

— almost determined on returning it without 
breaking the seal, and put it into my reticule 
with this intention ; but somehow or other my 
curiosity prevailed, and I opened it. — Found it 
filled with hearts, and darts, and declarations : 

— felt very angry at first; for really it is 
very provoking that one can't have a comfort- 
able little flirtation half-a-dozen times with 
a man, but that he fancies he may declare his 
passion, and so bring on a denouement ; for 
one must either cut the creature, which, if 
he is amusing, is disagreeable, or else he 



OF A LADY OF FASHION. 6 1 

thinks himself privileged to repeat his love 
on every occasion. How very silly men are 
in acting thus ; for if they continued their 
assiduities without a positive declaration, one 
might affect to misunderstand their atten- 
tions, however marked : but those decided de- 
larations leave nothing to the imagination ; 
and offended modesty, with all the guards of 
female propriety, are indispensably up in arms. 
I remember reading in some book that " a 
man has seldom an offer of kindness to make 
to a woman that she has not a presentiment of 
it some moments before ;" and I think it was in 
the same book that I read that a continuation 
of quiet attentions, leaving their meaning to 
the imagination, is the best mode of gaining 
a female heart. My own experience has 
proved the truth of this. — I wish Belmont 
had not written to me : — I don't know 



62 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

what to do : — how shocked my mother 
and sister would be if they knew it : — I have 
promised to dance with him at Almack's 
too : — how disagreeable. I shall take the 
note and return it to him, and desire that he 
will not address me again in that style. I 
have read the note again, and I really believe 
he loves me very much : — poor fellow, I 
pity him : — how vexed Lady Winstanley 
would be if she knew it : — I must not be 
very angry with him : I'll look grave and dig- 
nified, and so awe him, but not be too severe. 
I have looked over the billet again, and don't 
find it so presumptuous as I first thought it : — 
after all, there is nothing to be angry about, 
for fifty women of rank have had the same 
sort of thing happen to them without any 
mischief following it. Belmont says I am a 
great prude, and I believe I am ; for I fre- 



OF A LADY OF FASHION. 63 

quently find myself recurring to the sage 
maxims of mamma and my sister, and asking 
myself what would they think of so and so. 
Lady Winstanley laughs at them, and calls 
them a couple of precise quizzes; but still 
I have remarked how much more lenient 
they are to a fault than she is. Heigh-ho, 
I am afraid they have been too lenient to 
mine: — but I must banish melancholy re- 
flections, and dress for Almack's. Flounce 
told me, on finishing my toilette, that I was 
armed for conquest ; and that I never looked 
so beautiful. Mamma would not much ap- 
prove of Flounce's familiar mode of express- 
ing her admiration ; but, poor soul, she only 
says what she thinks. — I have observed that 
my lord dislikes Flounce very much : but so 
he does every one that I like. 



64 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

Never was there such a delightful ball : — 

though I am fatigued beyond measure, I must 

note down this night's adventures : — I found 

the rooms quite filled, and narrowly escaped 

being locked out by the inexorable regula- 
rs »/ o 

tions of the Lady Patronesses, for it only 
wanted a quarter to twelve when I entered. 
By-the-bye, I have often wondered w T hy 
people submit to the haughty sway of those 
ladies ; but I suppose it is that most persons 
dislike trouble, and so prefer yielding to their 
imperious dictates, to incurring a displeasure, 
which would be too warmly and too loudly 
expressed, not to alarm the generality of 
quiet people. There is a quackery in fashion, 
as in all other things, and any one who has 
courage enough (I was going to w r rite im- 
pudence), rank enough, and wealth enough, 



OF A LADY OF FASHION. 65 

may be a leader. But here am I moralizing 
on the requisites of a leader of fashion, when 
I should be noting down the delicious scene 
of this night in her favourite and favoured 
temple. I tried to look very grave at poor 
Belmont; but the lights, the music, and 
the gaiety of the scene around me, with 
the consciousness of my looking more than 
usually well, gave such an exhilaration to 
my spirits, that I could not contract my 
brows into anv thing like a frown : and with- 
out a frown, or something approaching it, it 
is impossible to look grave. Belmont took 
advantage of my good spirits to claim my 
hand, and pressed it very much. I deter- 
mined to postpone my lecture to him until 
the next good opportunity, for a ball-room 
is the worst place in the world to act the 
moral or sentimental. A-jpropos of Belmont, 



66 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

what have I done with his note ? — My God, 
what a scrape have I got into ! — I left my 
reticule, into which I had put the note, on 
my sofa, and the note bears the evident 
marks of having been opened by some one 
who could not fold it again : it must have 
been Flounce. — I have often observed her 
curiosity — and now am I completely in her 
power. — What shall I do ? — After serious 
consideration, I think it the wisest plan to 
appear not to suspect her, and part with her 
the first good opportunity. I feel all over in 
a tremor, and can write no more. 

Thursday. — Could not close my eyes for 
three hours after I got to bed ; and when I 
did, dreamt of nothing but detections, duels, 
and exposures : — awoke terrified : — I feel 
nervous and wretched : — Flounce looks 
more than usually important and familiar — 



of a lady of fashion, 67 

or is it conscience that alarms me ? — Would 
to Heaven I had never received that horrid 
note — or that I had recollected to take it to 
Almack's, and give it back to him. I really feel 
quite ill. Madame requested an audience, 
and has told me she can no longer remain in 
my family, as she finds it impossible to do 
my children justice unassisted by me. I tried 
to persuade her to stay another quarter, which 
she firmly, but civilly, declined. This is very 
provoking, for the children are fond of, and 
obedient to Madame, and I have had no 
trouble since she has been with them ; be- 
sides my mother recommended her, and will 
be annoyed at her going. I must write to 
Madame, and offer to double her salarv ; 
all governesses, at least all that I have tried, 
like money. I must lie down, I feel so 
fatigued and languid : — mamma is worse, 
f 2 



68 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

and I really am unable to go to her ; for I 
am so nervous that I could be of no use. 

Friday. — I am summoned to my mother, 
and my Lord says she is in the utmost 
danger. Madame, to add to my discomforts, 
has declined my offers : — I feel a strong 
presentiment of evil, and dread I know not 
what 

Good Heavens ! what a scene have I 
witnessed — my dear and excellent mother 
was insensible when I got to her, and died 
without seeing or blessing me. Oh ! what 
would I not give to recal the past, or to 
bring back even the last fleeting week 
that I might atone, in some degree, for my 
folly, my worse than folly — my selfish and 
cruel neglect of the best of mothers ! Never 
shall I cease to abhor myself for it. — Never 
till I saw that sainted form for ever insen- 



OF A LADY OF FASHION. 69 

sible did I feel my guilt From day to day 
I have deceived myself with the idea that her 
illness was not dangerous, and silenced all 
the whispers of affection and duty, to pursue 
my selfish and heartless pleasures. How 
different are the resignation and fortitude of 
my sister, from my frantic grief ! — she has 
nothing to accuse herself of. and knows that 
her care and attention soothed the bed of 
death. But how differently was I employed ! 
— distraction is in the thought ; I can write 
no more, for my tears efface the words. 

Saturday, — My dear and estimable sister 
has been with me, and has spoken comfort to 
my afflicted soul. She conveyed to me a 
letter from my sainted parent, written a few 
hours before her death, which possibly this 
exertion accelerated. The veil which has so 
long shrouded my reason is for ever re- 
f 3 



70 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 

moved, and all my selfishness and mis- 
conduct are laid bare to my view. Oh ! my 
mother — you whose pure counsel and bright 
example in life could not preserve your un- 
worthy child, from the bed of death your last 
effort has been to save her. As a daughter, 
a wife, and a mother, how have I blighted 
your hopes and w r ounded your affections ! 

My sister says, that my mother blessed me 
with her last words, and expressed her hopes 
that her dying advice would snatch me from 
the paths of error. Those dying hopes, and 
that last blessing shall be my preservatives. 
I will from this hour devote myself to the 
performance of those duties that I have so 
shamefully, so cruelly neglected. My hus- 
band, my children, — with you I will retire 
from those scenes of dissipation and folly, so 
fatal to my repose and virtue ; and in retire- 



OF A LADY OF FASHION. 71 

ment commune with my own heart, correct 
its faults, and endeavour to emulate the ex- 
cellencies of my lamented mother. 

Oh ! may my future conduct atone for the 
past, but never, never let the remembrance 
of my errors be effaced from my mind. 



f 4 



AN ALLEGORY. 



Pleasure was the daughter of Virtue and 
Happiness, and the sister of Innocence and 
Modesty ; these three lovely sisters, like the 
Graces, were seldom asunder, and their 
parents were delighted with their union and 
harmony ; but, alas ! on a luckless day, while 
roaming o'er a verdant mead, Pleasure, tired 
with plucking every flowret that pleased her, 
was attracted by the brilliant hues of a beau- 
tiful butterfly that floated in air like a winged 
flower, and proposed to her sisters to chace 
it. Innocence was occupied in admiring the 



AN ALLEGORY. 



effect of the dew-drops, which, glittering be- 
neath the beams of the rising sun, shone like 
orient gems on the tender petals of the flowers, 
and Modesty was contemplating her own 
sweet emblem, the snowy lily of the valley, 
whose spotless purity vied with the veil that 
shaded her lovely bosom. They advised 
Pleasure to pause and enjoy the smiling 
scene around her, and not to abandon it for 
a pursuit that might end in disappointment, 
and incur the anger of their parents. Plea- 
sure, heedless and self-willed, regarded not 
the advice, but sprung forward in the pur- 
suit, and was soon out of sight. With eager 
eyes, out-stretched arms, and rapid steps, she 
chaced the gaudy insect from blossom to 
blossom, until it lighted, nearly exhausted, 
on a passion-flower : when Pleasure, spring- 
ing forward to seize it, crushed both the in- 



74 AN ALLEGORY. 

sect and flower in her ruthless grasp. Dis- 
appointed of the anticipated gratification, she 
flung the mutilated fragments from her hand, 
and her beautiful countenance was for a 
moment clouded by anger; but another 
gaudy butterfly hovering near, attracted 
her attention, and she was about to re- 
new the chace, when Virtue appeared be- 
fore her, with a severity of aspect that she 
had never before seen him wear. Awed by 
his grave looks, Pleasure at first hung her 
head, and then assuming one of her most 
winning smiles, she attempted to approach 
him ; but Virtue retreating from her touch, 
thus addressed her: — " While pursuing your 
own amusement, I forbade your giving pain 
to any thing that had life, or destroying the 
bounteous gifts of nature, scattered to adorn 
the paths of duty. You have deprived an 



AN ALLEGORY. 75 

insect of existence, in the moment that, after 
a life of usefulness, it was enjoying the fruits 
of past industry, by basking in the rays of 
the sun, and inhaling the fragrance of each 
tempting bud ; and the flowers that have 
been crushed beneath your heedless feet, and 
scattered by your lavish hands, might still 
have retained their beauty and perfume to 
gratify others. When Pleasure ceases to 
respect the commands of Virtue, she is no 
longer worthy to be considered the offspring 
of Happiness, or the companion of Inno- 
cence and Modesty. Henceforth you are 
banished from our presence, and condemned 
to wander through the mazes of error, and 
you will be valued only by the least estimable 
of mankind. The haunts of Dissipation, Idle- 
ness, and Folly, are the temples in which you 
will be worshipped ; and your votaries, in 



76 AN ALLEGORY. 

pursuing you, will cease to regard the ap- 
proval of Virtue, the rewards of Happiness, 
and the smiles of Innocence and Modesty." 

Having thus spoken, Pleasure was instantly 
transported far from the presence of her 
parents and sisters, and found herself irre- 
sistibly impelled forward, without the power 
of suspending her course, for more than a 
few minutes. She first paused in a splendid 
saloon, brilliantly illuminated, and decorated 
in a style of great magnificence. It was 
crowded with gay visitors, who seemed in- 
tent only on receiving Pleasure, who felt 
flattered by their homage, and was approach- 
ing to reward them with her sweetest smiles, 
when she was forced from them, and found 
herself hurried away. She turned to regard 
their movements, and found that Disappoint- 
ment, Envy, and Detraction now occupied her 



AN ALLEGORY. 77 

place, and attracted all their attention. Dis- 
gusted with their conduct, and mortified by 
their fickleness, Pleasure vowed never more 
to attend a route, the dullest of all amuse- 
ments, and flew off to a ball, where Youth 
and Beauty hailed her presence with spark- 
ling eyes and sweetest smiles. " Here, ex- 
claimed Pleasure, " I hope I may remain 
and enjoy myself; but even should I be com- 
pelled to fly from this scene of gaiety, I shall 
not have the mortification of having my 
place occupied by unworthy successors, for 
those amiable mortals seem too much devoted 
to me not to retain a lively remembrance of 
me, though deprived of my presence. 5 ' But, 
alas ! while making this reflection, she was 
again hurried awav, and saw with regret 
that Ennui was struggling with Vanity, which 
should usurp the place of Pleasure. She 



78 AN ALLEGORY. 

hurried from opera to concert, and from 
theatre to masquerade ; but after showing 
herself for a few minutes, found herself 
banished from each, for her empire was at- 
tacked by all the evil passions, headed by 
Ennui, leagued against her ; and her votaries, 
though professing to worship her alone, had 
too long submitted to the control of the 
Passions to resist their baleful influence, even 
to enjoy the smiles of the goddess of their 
idolatry. It was now, for the first time, that 
Pleasure became sensible of the miserable 
change in her destiny; and regretted, with 
fond, but bitter remembrance, her separa- 
tion from Virtue, Happiness, Innocence, and 
Modesty. Filled with contrition, she implored 
the forgiveness of her offended parents, and 
begged to be once more restored to their 
presence. Innocence and Modesty pleaded 



AN ALLEGORY. 79 

for her, and Virtue, won by their entreaties, 
consented to remove her from earth, where 
she no more appears ; but, linked between 
her sisters, and attending to the dictates of 
Virtue, she is again united to Happiness, 
from whose presence she never wanders. 

Her place on earth is supplied by a nymph 
who assumes her name and attributes, but 
who is of earthly birth, being the offspring of 
Extravagance and Idleness, and who leads 
her votaries from folly to ruin. 



80 



FASTIDIOUSNESS OF TASTE. 



After being accustomed to excellence in 
art and science, it requires great merit to 
stimulate the languid attention, and satisfy 
the increasing fastidiousness of taste. This is 
a cruel deduction from the pleasure which is 
expected to be derived from familiarity with 
excellence and improvement in knowledge ; 
so that after all it may be doubted, whether 
we grow happier as we grow wiser ; and per- 
haps those who are at the most pains, — to 
see the best that is to be seen, — to read the 
best that is to be read — and to hear the 
best that is to be heard, are only labouring 



FASTIDIOUSNESS OF TASTE. 81 

to exhaust the sources of innocent oratifi- 
cation, and incapacitating themselves from 
future enjoyment, by approaching nearer to 
that state which has been so truly described 
as a state of 

" Painful pre-eminence ourselves to view, 
Above life's pleasures, and its comforts too." 

Diary of an Invalid. 

I believe it may be doubted, whether too 
great an improvement or refinement of the 
mental powers does not produce a fastidious- 
ness injurious to happiness. When we are 
accustomed to view fine pictures and statues, 
we cannot behold inferior ones with pleasure ; 
and as the latter are more frequently brought 
before us, we lose the gratification winch w r e 
might derive from them if our tastes were less 
refined. The frequent perusal of the best 
authors is apt to unfit us for society ; for it is 

G 



82 FASTIDIOUSNESS OF TASTE. 

difficult to find companions whose conversa- 
tion can make amends for the books which we 
have quitted. A mind thus refined is like the 
fabled bird of the East, that stores her nest 
with sweets with which she consumes herself. 






83 



COQUETRY. 



I:s£5?o. 198. of the Spectator there is a re- 
markably good paper by Addison, on the 
dangers of coquetry and levity. He com- 
mences by saying, " There is a species of 
women whom I shall distinguish by the 
name of Salamanders. Now, a Salamander 
is a kind of heroine in chastity, that treads 
upon fire, and lives in the midst of flames 
without being hurt. A Salamander knows 
no distinction of sex in those she converses 
with, grows familiar with a stranger at first 
sight, and is not so narrow-spirited as to 
observe whether the person she talks to be in 
g 2 



84 COQUETRY. 

male or female attire. She plays a whole 
evening at picquet with a gentleman, walks 
with him two or three hours by moonlight, 
and is extremely scandalized at the unreason- 
ableness of a husband, or the severity of a 
parent, that would debar the sex from such 
innocent liberties." .*• 

There is no character more prevalent in 
the present day than that of the Salamander, 
though it is perhaps now better known as the 
coquette, and there is none more injurious to 
society. It may be questioned whether the 
woman who, in private, sacrifices her honour, 
but in public wears the semblance of virtue, 
is not less dangerous to society ; and whether 
there be not greater hope of her amendment. 
Her sin, enormous as it is, being concealed 
from the world, and accompanied by all the 
outward appearances of propriety, has not 



COQUETRY, 85 

the same pernicious effect of bad example. 
Conscious of her own crimes, she pays the 
deference to Virtue of assuming its mask ; and 
it is to be hoped that she may see the error 
of her ways and amend : but the Salamander 
goes on priding herself on the consciousness 
of preserving her chastity; while her conduct 
is so full of levity, that the generality of 
mankind believe that so much public impro- 
priety must be accompanied by actual guilt ; 
and her example cannot fail of being injurious 
to the young and thoughtless. There is but 
little prospect of her amendment ; for though 
suffering under a loss of character, she is 
unconscious of her faults, and fancies herself 
the victim of unjust slander. She is insen- 
sible of the necessity of appearing virtuous, 
as well as of being so ; and this blindness to 
her own errors engenders an angry feeling at 
g 3 



86 COOUETRY. 

what she considers the injustice of the world, 
which leaves the mind ill prepared for reflec- 
tion and repentance. Another danger at- 
tached to the Salamander is, that by her 
levity she encourages freedoms which often 
so far exceed the bounds of propriety, that 
even she feels indignant ; and, instead of 
reflecting on her own want of conduct, which 
led to such liberties, and resolving never 
again to betray the same levity, she resents 
the insult with all the warmth and astonish- 
ment of outraged modesty and decorum; 
like a person who has thrown down the 
fence which guards his property, and is then 
surprised that people trespass on it. 



87 



EGOTISM. 



There are few characters more offensive to 
society than that of the egotist, and none for 
which we find less excuse ; and yet this very 
failing may in some instances proceed from a 
goodness of heart, and from a want of know- 
ledge of mankind, w T hich lead the undiscern- 
ing into a belief that all their actions are as 
interesting to others as to themselves. An 
acquaintance with general society ought to 
cure this propensity ; for an accurate observer 
will soon discover, that with the exception of 
his own family, there are few individuals to 
whom his actions are not uninteresting, and 
g 4 



88 EGOTISM. 

to whom the recapitulation of them is not 
tedious and disgusting. 

I met with an amusing didactic poem, 
entitled " Conversation/' written by William 
Cook, Esq., which contains some good ad- 
vice on this subject, and which I shall sub- 
join : but good as the advice is, I fear it will 
be of little use, for egotists are seldom aware 
of their own defects ; and even the disagree- 
able hints of averted looks, and gaping yawns 
of the listeners, do not always bring convic- 
tion that the subject is tiresome. 



" The several letters which grammarians spread, 
Alike before the grave or thoughtless head, 
In conversation you may freely choose, 
As suit the range of philosophic views ; 
Save one — which well-bred modesty puts by 
On most occasions, — called the mighty I. 
Let not this braggart vaunt what I have done, 
The long illustrious line from whence I sprung ; 



EGOTISM. 89 

The jokes I told, the fortune I possess, 

The skill I boast in science and address, 

The plans I schemed at college, or at school, 

With all my wondrous powers to play the fool. 

Nor shift your course, and cant in humble tone, 

O'er all the faults peculiarly your own ; 

As how too blunt, your manners will prevail, 

Or how deceived by some concerted tale, 

Madly good-natured, though your friends betray, 

But 'tis your failing, and you must obey. 

Ah, would the Egotist but fairly state, 

How he participates another's fate, 

How much he heeds another's joys and cares 

When not commingling with his own affairs, — 

From kindred feelings, he'd confess with shame, 

The unavailing boasts of selfish fame ! " 

The same poem contains some good ob- 
servations on a love of argument in convers- 
ation, and a desire of shining, as also of 
vaunting. 

It is difficult to decide whether the egotist 
or the arguer be the more disagreeable to 
society. The first thinks only of himself; 



90 EGOTISM. 

the second is generally not content with 
thinking highly of his own powers, but seems 
anxious to display them at the expense of 
those with whom he happens to engage in 
conversation, and not only often displays as 
much selfishness as the egotist, but the self- 
ishness is of a more offensive kind, as it is 
generally mixed with ill humour : it being 
allowed that those who are fond of argument 
seldom carry it on either with good humour 
or with good breeding. 

The very act of engaging in a discussion 
displays a consciousness of superiority that 
can seldom fail to wound the self-love of 
some one of the company; and few, if any, 
are ever induced to change their opinions by 
the force of argument. 

" He that's convinced against his will 
Is of the same opinion still." 



EGOTISM. 91 

The same reasons, modestly adduced, 
without any of the heat or superciliousness 
so generally assumed by arguers, and above 
all, without any apparent desire to make 
converts, or display one's own abilities, would 
have much greater weight in convincing 
people of their errors, if convincing them 
were the object in view; but it is to be 
feared that the desire of display, or the plea- 
sure taken by a peevish temper, in contra- 
diction, is too generally the cause of argu- 
ments. Whatever may be the cause, the 
effect is destructive to the harmony of 
society. 

" Again, when argument, disposed to play, 
Turns with commanding grace from grave to gay, 
Its sprightly humour, fanciful yet true, 
Arrays the subject in its happiest hue. 
But sprung from pride, and nursed by learning's spleen. 
Aspiring only to be heard and seen, 



92 EGOTISM. 

When, as the bully of the mind, 'tis found 
Thund'ring its dogmas with imperious sound, 
We turn aside, with indignation stung 
And loathe this rude monopoly of tongue. 
All met to please — consign this wordy war 
To wrangling sophs, or witlings at the bar, — 
All met for mutual happiness and ease, 
'Tis fitting each should have his turn to please : 
This cast of parts unites colloquial charms, 
Gives wit its point, and wisdom all its arms. 

" In reasoning, likewise, shun the vaunting line, 
And sometimes wave the privilege to shine ; 
Why press a yielding foe, and let him see 
How you excel him, and in what degree ? 
Praise when you can with genuine warmth of heart, 
And even when forced to censure spare the smart. 
Nay, should some rustic of the forest birth, 
Who proves his near affinity to earth, 
Should he come forward with his clumsy skill, 
His talent force, his reasoning headstrong will — 
By silence ward the blow, — or help to find 
A quagmire bottom for his floundering mind; 
Fast in his native mud, — his brawl's soon o'er, 
And wisdom gains a respite from his roar." 



93 



REFLECTIONS. 



" The coward calls himself a wary man, and the 
miser says he is frugal." Bacon. 

It is thus that we all endeavour to gloss over 
our own failings ; but we seldom succeed in 
deceiving others, and never ourselves. No ! 
however plausibly we may give to our vices 
the names of the prudent qualities from 
which they have degenerated, a latent feel- 
ing exists in our own hearts, that tells us how 
wide is the distinction between frugality and 
avarice, prudence and cowardice, caution and 
suspicion. 



94 REFLECTIONS. 

SUCCESS NOT ALWAYS A TEST OF MERIT. 

Success is the criterion by which actions 
are too generally judged, and often consti- 
tutes the difference between a rash effort and 
a glorious enterprise. 

INGRATITUDE. 

Ingratitude is the most baleful weed that 
can spring up in the human heart ; its growth 
destroys every plant of virtue, and bears 
down every blossom of affection. So noxious 
is its influence, that it taints every seed of 
goodness with which it comes in contact, and 
for ever injures the soil where it takes root. 

Ingratitude ! thy poisoned sting I feel 
With inward bitterness I can't reveal ; 
Such deadly venom doth thy touch impart, 
It falls like mildew, withering up the heart. 



REFLECTIONS. 95 

PAST HAPPINESS. 

The memory of past happiness is like the 
essence of the rose, which, though robbed of 
its brilliant hue and graceful form, still re- 
tains its original sweetness, 



96 



SENSIBILITY. 



This virtue, which, when kept within due 
bounds, contributes so much to the hap- 
piness of mankind, is, if permitted to degene- 
rate into excess, productive of much evil. 

Hume, in speaking of Rousseau to Blair, 
remarks, that his excessive sensibility is a 
source of perpetual pain to him ; and com- 
pares him to " a man stript, not only of his 
clothes, but of his skin, and turned out in 
that situation, to combat with the rude and 
boisterous elements, such as perpetually dis- 
turb this lower world." 



SENSIBILITY. 97 

This sensitive being was fully aware of 
the pernicious tendency of an excess, or a 
misapplication of that quality by which he 
was so remarkably distinguished; for Rous- 
seau, I think it is, w T ho observes, that " The 
tears which we shed for fictitious sorrow are 
admirably adapted to make us proud of all 
the virtues we do not possess." The follow- 
ing lines are a true picture of that false sen- 
sibility which we too often see practised : 

" Awake to each fictitious feeling grown, 
And moved by ills to real life unknown ; 
The mind with scenes of fabled woe possessed 
Will shut to homely ^rief the senseless breast, 
And turn from want and pain the offended ear, 
To pour for feigned distress the barren tear." 

In guarding against the morbid, sickly sen- 
sibility into which this amiable feeling may 
degenerate, let us be careful that in plucking 

H 



98 SENSIBILITY. 

out the weeds, we do not injure the root of 
this virtue. — Let us cherish it as a precious 
plant, that only requires to be trained and 
pruned to reach perfection. 



99 



FRIENDSHIP. 



- I call the man my friend who is inclined 
to treat me, when present, with candour ; 
when absent, with consideration." This was 
Marmontel's idea of the requisites essential 
in a friend ; but how few, how very few, de- 
serve that appellation, which is so indis- 
criminately bestowed by the unthinking on 
any companion whom chance or circum- 
stances have thrown in their way, or with 
whom, by some similarity of pursuit or of 
taste, they have formed an intimacy ; which, 
though it brings them often together, still 
leaves them devoid of any sentiment of real 
regard or esteem ! 

h 2 



100 FRIENDSHIP. 

Friendship, in the modern acceptation of 
the word, is merely an association produced 
by habit or convenience, and dissolved as 
easily as it is formed. Happy, thrice happy, 
are they who in this " weary pilgrimage" 
meet with that most inestimable of all bless- 
ings — a true friend ; feelingly alive to their 
good qualities, and correcting the bad with 
the mild and patient voice of truth, kindness, 
and sincerity, which only wishes to raise the 
object of its censure. 

Rousseau has said, and with great delicacy 
of feeling, that we may repulse blows aimed 
at us by our enemies ; but when we behold 
among the assassins our friend, sword in 
hand, nothing remains but to hide our head. 
How strongly did the " Et tu Brute !" of 
Julius Caesar express his sentiment, when, 
folding his robe over his head, he resigned 



FRIENDSHIP. 101 

himself to his fate ! It is from friends, or at 
least nominal ones, that we frequently receive 
the deepest wounds ; and bitter experience 
daily inculcates the sage advice, from which 
the generous youthful mind turns with dis- 
dain, — " Live with your friends as though 
they may one day become your enemies." 



h 3 



102 



WENTWORTH. 



Oh, man ! without fair woman's smile, 
Vain were thy efforts to beguile 
The weary hours that oft intrude 
In life's gay scenes or solitude. 



THE DECISION. 

" I must have change of scene/' I ex- 
claimed, as lounging in my easy chair by 
the fire-side in my library, I indulged in the 
luxurious indolence of a hearty yawn and 
stretch of limbs, that solitude alone could 
excuse; and closing the second ponderous 
volume of Walpole's Memoirs, I gave way 
to drowsy ruminations. 

I have now been eight months in the 



WENTWOBTH. 103 

country; and though they have flown swiftly 
and agreeably by, still the last few days have 
passed rather heavily, and it is time to for- 
sake the joys of sylvan groves and rural 
shades for London and its dear delights 
(dear in more senses than one) ; and yet my 
home is endeared to me by so many recol- 
lections and associations, that I can hardly 
bring myself to leave it, even for a short 
time. The venerable trees that ornament my 
park appear like old friends; and I never 
pass the oak in front of the dining-room, 
beneath whose umbrageous shades I have so 
often frolicked in childhood's happy days, 
without recalling some faint shadow of the 
fleeting joys which I then experienced. Every 
spot in this favourite abode of my ancestors is 
rendered sacred by tender reminiscences; 
and when I look on the benevolent counte- 
h 4 



104 WENTWORTH. 

nances of my father and mother, that, even 
from the canvass, appear to beam on me with 
their wonted affection, I fancy the pleasure 
they would feel at seeing me residing here, 
and carrying on all the plans of improvement 
which they suggested. How many hours of 
unmixed and rational amusement have I en- 
joyed in this room ! The volumes that 
surround me are all like tried and valued 
friends, who have administered to my happi- 
ness. The pictures, and even the furniture, 
possess an interest for me; and I cannot 
fancy myself so comfortable any where as in 
the easy chair in which I am now seated : but 
perhaps this latter feeling partakes a little of 
the united force of bachelorship and habit, and 
before it becomes fixed I ought to mingle 
more with general society. It is not good 
for man to be alone ; and, even in Paradise, 



WENTWORTH. 105 

Adam was unblest until Eve was given to 
him. Unlike our first parent, I must leave 
my Paradise, to search for a partner in that 
vast wilderness, the world; too happy if I can 
transport hither some fair companion, whose 
virtues may emulate those of its late mistress, 
and whose smiles and converse may soothe 
my future life. At thirty it is time to marry ; 
and I must shake off the rust and indolence 
of selfish indulgence that, in solitude, so 
soon acquire the force of habit. London is 
the grand theatre of England: my fortune 
and connexions are a passport to the best 
exhibitions it can furnish ; and there I may 
meet what no foreign clime has discovered to 
me, — the woman I would select as a partner 
for life. Allons then to London ; and, for a 
few months, adieu to home and all its de- 
lights, to vernal gales and smiling landscapes, 



106 WENTWORTH. 

to evenings of tranquil enjoyment and nights 
of healthful and unbroken slumber, — which 
are ill exchanged for a dense atmosphere, 
crowded streets, days of idleness, and nights 
of heartless, vapid amusement, finished by 
feverish and unrefreshing sleep. 

THE DEPARTURE. 

Adieu, adieu ! ye peaceful shades 
That oft have charmed your master's view ; 
Dear native woods, and russet glades, 
And winding streams, adieu, adieu ! 

It was on a brilliant morning in the early 
part of May that I left Wentworth Hall for 
London ; and never did that charming spot 
appear in greater beauty. The trees, clothed 
in the delicate vivid green of early spring, 
and begemmed with the glittering dew T -drops, 
which sparkled beneath the rays of the sun, 



WENTWORTH, 107 

possessed all the attractions for the lover 
of rural scenery that the foliage of that 
vernal season always boasts; an attraction 
that is heightened by the contrast it affords 
to the gloomy, sterile prospects, recently wit- 
nessed. The aspins, with their light and 
graceful branches agitated by the breeze, 
and overtopped by the venerable oaks, whose 
brown and withered leaves were scattered 
around by each undulation of the air, ap- 
peared like the fresh and blooming creatures 
of infancy, frolicking around their great grand- 
sires, and furnished a striking contrast between 
joyous youth and hoary age. Woods, rising 
over woods, were intersected by lawns whose 
emerald hue broke their continuity, and over 
which were scattered flocks of sheep, whose 
snowy fleeces, seen in the distance, shone 
like pearls. The blue hills, fading into air, 



108 WENTWORTH. 

bounded the scene; while the broad and 
rapid river, winding gracefully through the 
park, reflected the giant limbs of the vener- 
able trees that overhung its banks, or, broken 
into ripples by the breath of morn, showed 
its crystal transparency. Herds of deer were 
seen scattered around, giving, by their gam- 
bols, an air of life and animation to the scene. 
The birds sent forth a thousand notes of joy, 
as perched on the spray, or fluttering from 
bough to bough, they united in a universal 
chorus. The hum of bees, the lowing of 
cattle heard from a distance, — all attuned the 
mind to harmony and peace, and forcibly 
brought to my recollection Beattie's ex- 
quisite description of a morning scene; the 
truth and felicity of which now impressed 
itself on me so forcibly, that I was ready, 
with him, to exclaim — 



WENTWORTH. 109 

a O how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, 
The pomp of groves and garniture of fields; 
All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 
And all that echoes to the song of even ; 
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
And all the dread magnificence of heaven ; 
O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be for- 
given \" 



I applied this appeal to myself; and, gazing 
around to take in the whole beauty of the 
picture, felt more than half tempted to send 
away my carriage, and remain yet a few days 
longer in the country : but at that moment 
my servant's announcing that " every thing 
was ready," decided my wavering inclinations; 
and, casting many a longing, lingering look 
behind, I entered the vestibule. Here were, 
formally marshalled, the old domestics, who 
had grown grey in the service of my family, 



110 WENTWORTH. 

and who, claiming the privilege of age and 
length of services, were waiting to wish me 
" a good journey, and safe and speedy return 
to the Hall." Regret was visible in all their 
countenances; but the housekeeper, who, from 
having been a favourite of my mother, and 
having (as she frequently reminds me) often 
dandled me on her knee, thinks herself en- 
titled to take greater liberties, with a voice 
faltering from emotion, and feeble from age 
hoped I would take care of my health ; and 
hoped, and hoped again, while a tear stole 
down her venerable cheek, that I would soon 
come back ; for that, at her time of life, if I 
staid very long, she might never see me again. 
I soothed her with promises of soon re- 
turning ; and, pressing her trembling hand, 
into which I slipped a note, to enable her to 
extend her charitable benefactions during my 



WENTWORTH. 1 1 1 

absence, I hurried into my carriage, and soon 
lost sight of the venerable towers of my an- 
cestors. Those only who have left a loved 
home can enter into the feelings with which 
I gazed from the carriage, as winding round 
the last hill that commanded a view of the 
Hall, I saw its grey turrets rising through 
the stately avenues that surround it : I was 
glad that there was no witness to the emotion 
I betrayed ; for I felt that mauvaise Jionte we 
are so apt to experience when we give way 
to our feelings, as if they were a weakness 
which we should be ashamed to indulge. 

My vanity was soothed and gratified by 
the respectful attention which I received from 
the obsequious landlords at every inn where I 
changed horses for the first fifty miles of my 
journey. The owner of Wentworth Hall 
appeared, in their eyes, a person of no ordi- 



112 WENTWORTH. 

nary consequence; and I was flattered at 
finding that I was so well known, though so 
lately a resident on my estate. But as I 
approached nearer to the metropolis, my 
identity was lost ; and I entered it with the 
consciousness of my self-importance consi- 
derably abated. 

ARRIVAL. 

Fashion ! to Nature still untrue, 
Thy votaries veil her from their view ; 
And all her vernal sweets resign, 
Amid thy heartless throng to shine. 

It was on a lovely evening that I was 
whirled into this gay emporium of luxury. 
The postillions entered Hyde Park through 
Cumberland Gate, and proceeded as rapidly 
as a long-extended line of equipages would 
permit. I w T as perfectly astonished at the 
number and elegance of the carriages, and 



WENTWORTH. 113 

the handsome faces and gaily-decorated heads 
that peeped from them were not passed by 
unnoticed. Every thing and every body 
seemed to wear the appearance of a festival, 
and I concluded that some unusual excite- 
ment had drawn this crowd of visitors to the 
Park; but, on passing thence through the 
fashionable streets and squares, I discovered 
them almost equally thronged with carriages 
of every description, and equestrians and 
pedestrians of as various kinds. I was 
stunned and confused by the complication 
of sounds, and the noise, din, dust, and heat, 
that assailed me on all sides. I drove to 
Thomas's Hotel, in Berkeley Square, but found 
that every room was full ; and thence went to 
the Pulteney, where my servant was told by 
a bowing dandy, waiter that the house was 
filled ; and he remarked, with rather a super- 



114 WENTWORTH. 

cilious simper, that the apartments in the 
Pulteney were always ordered a month before. 
From the Pulteney I was driven to the Cla- 
rendon, where I was equally unfortunate ; 
and I now regretted that I had not taken the 
precaution of writing to bespeak a suite of 
rooms. My travelling-carriage, laden with 
imperials, and covered with dust, rattled by 
jaded post-horses and sulky postillion over 
the stones, from street to street, both fatigued 
and annoyed me ; but, at length, I found ac- 
commodation at Hotel, where I was 

heartily glad to find myself in apartments 
that, an hour before, I should have thought 
very unsuited to the owner of Wentworth 
Hall. A certain air about my servants and 
carriage, impressed the waiters with some 
idea of my importance, and procured me 
much attention, with many expressions of 



WENTWORTH. 115 

regret, that the house being so full did not 
permit them to give me better rooms. I 
looked round, and could not help contrasting 
the small paltry apartment I was now in, with 
the spacious well-proportioned ones at home; 
and, as I made the comparison, I gave a sigh 
to the quiet comforts of the Hall. 

The first few days after arriving any where 
are apt to be disagreeable, but are particu- 
larly so in London ; and I know no situation 
more cheerless, than that of a stranger on 
the day of arrival at a London Hotel, in 
the fashionable season : the noise and con- 
fusion within doors and without, the general 
air of gaiety and bustle that prevails, in 
which a stranger cannot sympathize, the 
consciousness of being ill dressed and out 
of the fashion, as well as out of the routine 

of daily amusement that is going on, though 
2 i 



116 WENTWORTH. 

in themselves trifling annoyances, and which 
in other moments, when supported by soli- 
tude and reflection, would only excite a smile, 
are now viewed in a more serious light, 
and jar on the feelings. Ten times, during 
the first evening of my arrival, did I regret 
having come to London, and wish myself 
back in the quiet shades of Wentworth Hall ; 
and the bustle in the house, and perpetual 
roll of carriages in the street passing and 
repassing, appeared unbearable, after the 
tranquil repose of the country. 

I retired early to bed, and while undress- 
ing made many wise reflections on the folly 
of a life of dissipation, and determined not to 
adopt the late hours of fashionable life, and 
to be more a spectator than an actor in its 
amusements. How I have kept this deter- 
mination, the sequel will prove. 

The sun shone bright through the dusty 



WENTWORTH. 117 

panes of my window, when my servant 
opened the curtain, and reminded me that it 
was time to rise ; and his bright beams were 
reflected on a dingy wall, and glittered on 
some glazed earthen chimney-pots that fronted 
my window. I turned from the sight; and im- 
agination flew back to the different beautiful 
and picturesque objects, which the same bright 
luminary was now lighting up at home. A 
train of thoughts, little suited to London or 
its pleasures, now took possession of my mind; 
from which I was disturbed, by my servant 
informing me that Mr. Stultz, the tailor, 
waited for me. I wished Mr. Stultz and 
his fripperies away ; but though I had the 
philosophy to form and express this wish, 
I was not stoic enough to send him away ; as 
candour compels me to state, that I felt a 
strong inclination to profit by his taste and 
i 3 



1 18 WENTWORTH. 

experience, and to be made to look a little 
like other people. 

During the time that I was dressing, Mr. 
Stultz reminded me more than once, through 
my servant, that he was in an extreme hurry, 
though I suspect that a wish of showing his 
importance was the chief motive of this haste ; 
for I found him by no means impatient to 
end our interview, as he descanted most dif- 
fusely on the merits of each colour and 
pattern that he displayed ; and begged leave 
to recommend each article, with a reference 
to its becoming effect on my person, which 
was done with a degree of tact that shewed 
him to possess much discrimination of cha- 
racter. 

Having given Mr. S. a carte blanche for 
my wardrobe, merely stipulating that I wished 
to look like a gentleman and not a dandy, 



WENTWORTH. 119 

lie took his leave with many bows, promising 
that I should have two suits sent home next 
morning; at the same time protesting that, 
(but he begged pardon,) really I was not fit 
to be seen in my present coats, they were so 
very old-fashioned, though he had made them 
only four months before ; and the waistcoats 
were now worn with quite a different sort of 
collar : — in short, he discovered that my 
whole wardrobe must be discarded ; which 
discovery seemed to afford peculiar satisfac- 
tion to my French valet, if I might judge by 
the smiles of complacency with which he as- 
sented to it. Hatters, hosiers, boot-makers, 
&c. &c. followed in succession, and occupied 
a considerable portion of the morning ; and 
this momentous business being got rid of, 
I drove to my solicitor's, to ask his assist- 
ance in finding me a furnished house for the 
i 4 



120 WENTWORTH. 

season : this he promised to do forthwith ; 
and I then proceeded to my bankers, to 
arrange my pecuniary concerns. I found 

Messrs. all civility and attention ; 

and remarked the difference between their 
respectful assiduity to me, and their negli- 
gent indifference to some titled acquaintances 
of mine that came in, — a difference, perhaps, 
proportioned to the state of our cash-account. 
I reflected all the way back to my hotel on 
riches, and their attending consequences ; and 
decided in my own mind, that the philoso- 
pher, who considered money as dross, had 
never known the comforts of having ten 
thousand pounds above his actual wants in 
his banker's hands, and had never expe- 
rienced the respectful attention it produces. 



WENTWORTH. 121 



FORMING AN ESTABLISHMENT. 

" In Fashion's circle if you'd shine, 
First, let your riches well be known, 
Give frequent dinners, costly wine; 
Your merit then the town will own." 

The Adviser. 



The first thing necessary to any one who 
wishes to be a somebody in London, is to 
have a good house, and to give good dinners : 
this is the surest road to a niche in the 
temple of fashion, and certainly an easy one 
to those who neither value their time nor 
their money. To accomplish this deside- 
ratum, the first step to be taken is to form 
a good establishment ; and I therefore lost 
no time in looking out for servants suitable 
to each department in a first-rate menage. 
Le Moine, my valet, offered his services 



122 WENTWOIITH. 

to procure the best chef de cuisine that his 

friend Monsieur could recommend ; and 

my solicitor found me a maitre d'hotel, groom 
of the chambers, butler, under-butler, foot- 
men, and a porter; which, with a first and 
second coachman, grooms, and helpers, 
formed the male part of my establishment. 
The female part were procured by the wife 
of my linen-draper ; and the whole were to 
hold themselves in readiness to enter my 
service, the moment a suitable house was 
found for me. My next object was to get 
a chariot and a curricle, and I was fortunate 
enough to find both at Windser's. They 
were but just completed in the very newest 
fashion, for a gentleman, whose taste far 
exceeded his fortune, and who was unable 
to pay for either ; so that they only required 
to have his arms erased and mine put on, 



WENTWORTH, 123 

which was done with all possible expedition. 
My solicitor found an excellent house in 
Hanover Square, into which I removed the 
moment it was ready for my reception ; and 
I was now installed in my town-residence 
in a style befitting my fortune and family. 
The only thing wanting was a set of horses, 
and those I determined to purchase at 
TattersalPs the ensuing Monday. I had kept 
myself retired since my arrival, not wishing 
to be seen until I could make my appear- 
ance with some degree of eclat. Vanity was 
the latent cause of this, and I blushed at 
the conviction ; but short as my stay in 
London had been, I had discovered that 
the Wentworth of the Hall and of London 
w T ere very different beings ; and that the 
sage reflections and prudent resolutions of 
the former, seemed to have faded from the 



124< WENTWORTH. 

recollection of the latter. When I walked 
out, I detected myself criticising the car- 
riages, horses, and servants that I saw, and 
with inward complacency prided myself with 
the idea that mine would surpass them. A 
few days before I should have despised 
such considerations, but now they were no 
longer trifling. 

On Monday I went to TattersalFs, and 
here a new scene awaited me. I had hitherto 
imagined that gentlemen attended this place 
for the sole purpose of buying or selling 
horses, and that one or two visits in the 
season sufficed ; but I now discovered, that it 
was considered absolutely necessary to ap- 
pear at this fashionable lounge regularly 
once or twice a week; and I saw some of 
the grave nobles and senators of the land, 
deeply engaged in familiar conversation with 



WENTWORTH. 1 25 

horse-dealers and grooms, who appeared 
quite at their ease, and by no means im- 
pressed with any feelings of respectful defer- 
ence for their noble or distinguished ac- 
quaintances. My aristocratic notions were a 
little outraged at the system of perfect equality 
I beheld : and I thought that the levelling 
system, so much dreaded and decried in the 
present day, must have first commenced at 
TattersalPs. 

I met several of my Eton and college 
acquaintances, with whom I renewed my 
intimacy. Having discovered my wants, they 
assisted me in the choice of horses ; and as 
many of them had gone to TattersalPs merely 
as a lounge, without having any precise 
object in view, they appeared glad to be 
employed. Others were so busy in making 
matches, and booking their bets for the 



126 WENTWORTH. 

Derby and Oaks, that they had scarcely 
time to give me a nod en passant. In 
London, where money is the primum mobile, 
every thing can be had by those who are 
possessed of that necessary evil ; and I left 
Tattersall's master of two sets of fine car- 
riage-horses, and four saddle-horses, on 
which desirable acquisition I was congratu- 
lated by all my friends. 



127 



TRUE LOVE. 



" The course of true love never did run smooth : 

But, either it was different in blood ; — 

Or if there were a sympathy in choice, 

War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it ; 

Making it momentary as a sound, 

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ; 

Brief as the lightning in the collied night, 

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, 

And ere a man hath power to say, — Behold! 

The jaws of darkness do devour it up : 

So quick bright things come to confusion." 

Mids ummer-Nigh fs Dream . 



During a visit that I paid last autumn to 
my friend, Lord Grandison, at his beautiful 
seat in the south of Ireland, I frequently 



128 TRUE LOVE. 

amused myself with strolling round its ro- 
mantic environs ; and one day was tempted 
to extend my rambles by an inviting path 
that opened through a copse, and was ter- 
minated by a little wicker gate. I sauntered 
through the winding path, and found that 
the gate led into the village church-yard, 
and I was about to enter it, when my atten- 
tion was arrested by a person, who was so 
intently ruminating, that he appeared un- 
conscious of my approach. An air of deep 
dejection marked the handsome, though 
pallid countenance of the person before me, 
and his figure, though somewhat bent by 
a languor that bespoke ill health, was still 
graceful and highly interesting. He stood 
in front of a simple but elegant tomb, in the 
form of an urn, composed of white marble, 
and appeared to be reading the characters 



TRUE LOVE. 129 

inscribed on it. A weeping willow waved 
its light branches over the urn, and its ver- 
dant foliage formed a pretty contrast to the 
pure white of the marble. On examining 
more closely, I found that the mourner, for 
such he appeared to be, held a gold locket 
in his hand, which was attached to his neck 
by a chain ; and as he occasionally pressed 
it to his lips, a tear stood in his eyes, which 
dimmed their almost unearthly lustre. I 
paused a considerable time, observing the 
movements of the stranger, while I was 
screened from his notice by the trees that 
shaded my path : but a consciousness that I 
was breaking in upon the sacred privacy of 
grief, induced me to turn from the spot ; and 
I retraced my steps homeward, with feelings 
of deep interest and sympathy for the 
mourner. A few days after, curiosity, or 

K 



130 TRUE LOVE. 

perhaps a better motive, led me to the rustic 
church-yard, and again I saw the same in- 
dividual, with a still more languid and de- 
jected face, while his figure appeared almost 
like a shadow ; so attenuated had it become, 
even in the brief interval that had elapsed 
since I had before seen him. I mentioned 
the meeting to my friend Lord Grandison, 
and expressed the interest which the stranger 
had excited in my mind, when he gave me 
the following little history of him. 

" The person you allude to is named 
Robert Fitzgibbon, and is descended from a 
very ancient family, who, for centuries past, 
have resided in my neighbourhood. Unfore- 
seen misfortunes plunged the father of this 
young man into difficulties ; and it was 
thought expedient to send Robert to Oporto, 
to seek the protection of a wealthy relation 



TRUE LOVE, 131 

settled there. Poor Robert had formed an 
attachment which had grown with his growth, 
and strengthened with his years ; and Ellen 
Desmond, the object of it, was handsome 
and amiable enough to render even its ex- 
cess pardonable. Poverty, for she too was 
portionless, was the only bar to their union ; 
and after many struggles, that wrung the 
hearts of those fond lovers, they consented 
to part, and look forward to his return at 
some distant period, when, having earned a 
competence, they might be enabled to marry, 
I have heard their parting described as one 
of the most affecting scenes that could be 
imagined : the families to which both be- 
longed, and indeed the individuals them- 
selves, were such favourites in the neigh- 
bourhood, that every one felt interested for 
them ; and there were, I believe, but few dry 
k 2 



132 TRUE LOVE. 

eyes in the village on the day of his depar- 
ture. 

" For a time, poor Ellen endeavoured to 
support her spirits, and hope, delusive hope, 
showed her many a sunny picture of happiness 
to come; but ' hope deferred maketh the heart 
sick,' and Ellen's soon drooped. The father 
of Robert was killed by a fall from his horse; 
and this sudden blow so affected his wife, 
that she soon followed her beloved partner 
to the grave. Ellen, who had tried to 
forget her own griefs to administer comfort 
to the parents of her Robert, was, by their 
death, deprived of the stimulus to exertion 
that had hitherto animated her. The bloom 
faded from her cheek, her lip lost its freshness, 
and her form its roundness. Each week, 
each day, marked the progress of decline; 
yet still she lingered on, an object of love 



TRUE LOVE. 133 

and pity to all around her. At this period, 
a letter arrived from Robert, containing a 
large remittance, and stating that by the 
death of his relation, who had died childless, 
and made him his heir, he was now in pos- 
session of a large fortune, and that the next 
vessel should bear him to his native shore 
to claim the hand of his Ellen. 

" The joy of this sudden and unhoped-for 
intelligence was too powerful for her weak 
frame, and she sunk under it. Before she 
breathed her last sigh, she requested to be 
interred beneath the willow that now shades 
her grave. It had been a favourite seat with 
Robert and her, from their infancy ; and it 
was there that he had wept with, and soothed 
her, when mourning for the parents whom 
she had lost in childhood. By my desire, 
the simple tomb you saw was erected ; and it 
k 3 



134 TRUE LOVE. 

is never seen by any of her neighbours without 
a sigh to her memory. 

" Robert returned here some months ago, 
high in hope and health. All my anxiety to 
have the melancholy intelligence that awaited 
him gently broken, before he could reach 
home, was unavailing: his impatient haste de- 
feated my care. He missed the letter, and the 
friend I sent to meet him, and arrived at the 
goal of his hopes, to find himself a bankrupt 
in happiness. His appearance tells the rest 
of his story. He came here ten months ago 
in perfect health; he is now, as you perceived, 
in the last stage of a rapid consumption. I 
have endeavoured to comfort him, and used 
every argument that reason afforded me, to 
induce him to remove from this neighbour- 
hood, but in vain ; he only answered me by 
a melancholy shake of his head, or else told 



TRUE LOVE. 135 

me, that the hour of his arrival here struck 
a death-blow to his heart, and that it was 
useless to struggle against it. Though aban- 
doned to a grief that is fast consuming his 
life, he still takes an interest in the happiness 
of others ; he seeks out the indigent and un- 
fortunate, and is as judicious as liberal in his 
benefactions. He has caused many a heart 
to rejoice since his return, though his own is 
blighted ; and has dried many a tear, though 
his own so oft overflow." 

In a few days after this conversation, Lord 
Grandison was summoned to bid an ever- 
lasting farewel to poor Robert, whose last 
hours were cheered by the hope of meeting 
his Ellen in realms of bliss. Lord Grandi- 
son, who has a heart full of the milk of 
human kindness, and a sensibility rarely to 
be met with in a person of his time of life, 

K 4* 



136 TRUE LOVE. 

appeared much affected by the death-bed 
scene which he had witnessed ; though, as he 
expressed himself, it was marked with a sense 
of religious faith and hope, that was truly 
edifying, and gave proof how strong was the 
reliance of the dying Christian on his mer- 
ciful Father. In arranging poor Robert's 
papers, my friend found many scraps of 
poetry, and among the rest the following 
copy of verses, which appear to have been 
written very soon after his return; and which, 
though possessing but little poetic merit, 
have an interest from being descriptive of his 
feelings. 

Peace be to his gentle spirit ! And, reader, 
when in life's gay scenes you hear the ex- 
istence of true love doubted, and the frailty 
of affection commented upon, — think of 
Ellen Desmond and Robert Fitzgibbon. 



TRUE LOVE. 137 



(AIR.) COOLUN. 

Once more, my loved country, I visit thy shore, 
And again the dear haunts of my childhood explore : 
The scene is unchanged, but with sorrow I find 
What bitter reflections it brings to my mind. 

Ah ! where are the friends, and companions so gay, 
Whose smiles and endearments gave wings to the day ! 
Alas ! those dear faces no more beam for me, 
And those friends so beloved ne'er again shall I see. 

Where now are the parents who cherished my youth, 
And taught me to honor religion and truth ! 
Oh ! where' s my betrothed, the pulse of my heart, 
My Ellen, from whom 'twas such anguish to part ! 

How often sad memory recals to my view, 
The deep tearful sorrow that mark'd our adieu ! 
She hung on my shoulders in speechless despair, 
While I cut from her tresses this lock of fair hair. 

How oft have I gazed on this ringlet of gold, 
When on far-distant oceans my vessel has rolled i 
In regions remote, to my lips it was prest, 
x\nd at night when in slumber 'twas laid on my breast. 



138 TRUE LOVE. 

Oh ! I thought not the head whence it gracefully 

flowed 
Was for ever at rest, in its gloomy abode : 
Not all my affection my Ellen could save, 
And I only return to behold her cold grave. 



139 



THE DYING INVALID. 



The chace ends here, for I find that it is in 
vain, Hygeia, I pursue thee. I have toiled 
after thee, over the mountains of Switzerland, 
and wooed thy smiles in Italia' s genial clime; 
I have sought thee on the bosom of the deep, 
and sighed for thee beneath the glowing sun 
of Iberia : but alas ! for ever thou eludest 
my feeble grasp ; and it is in vain, oh ! ruth- 
less Death, I seek to evade thy power. — 
Here, then, the contest ends ; and here it is, 
I feel, that in a few, a very few days, this 
heart, now so warm, shall cease to beat; these 
eyes, that now gaze enamoured on this en- 



140 THE DYING INVALID. 

chanting landscape, will be for ever closed ; 
and the thousand, thousand, tender, soul- 
thrilling remembrances, that crowd on my 
memory, shall be for ever lulled to rest by 
the bitter, but Lethean draught of death. 

I had hoped to reach my native land, to 
have my pillow smoothed by the gentle hand 
of affection, and my last sigh breathed in the 
home of my fathers: but it may not be ; and 
far, far from all I love, I resign a life which 
they would die to save. Will some tender 
presentiment warn them of my fate ? I cling 
to this hope with fond anxiety ; for I cannot 
bear to think that, at my last moment, they, 
unconscious of its approach, should per- 
chance be engaged in scenes of amusement, 
or indulging anticipations of our meeting. 
Memory, faithful to scenes of past happiness, 
pictures that happy home, and those dear 



THE DYING INVALID. 141 

relatives, at this tranquil hour of evening, at 
their accustomed occupations. I see the 
cheerful fire round which they are assembled : 
my father in his easy chair, enjoying his 
slumber, and my revered and tender mother 
regarding him with looks of complacency and 
love ; while my sister is, perhaps, tracing my 
route on the map, or reading aloud my last 
letter. Well do I know the anxiety of that 
dearly-loved circle for any of its absentees ; 
and my delicate health has so often drawn 
on its sympathy, that I reckon, and with 
jealous fondness too, on being often the sub- 
ject of its thoughts. As the picture warms 
on my imagination, how does my heart vi- 
brate ! I fancy myself returning to my native 
home ; I feel the motion of the vehicle as it 
rolls down the avenue; I see the looks of 
cordial welcome that beam in the eyes of 



142 THE DYING INVALID. 

the old domestics who admit me, as silent 
and unannounced, on eager tiptoe, I enter 
the library. Already I hear the exclama- 
tions of rapturous surprise and joy. I feel 
the fond and thrilling pressure of affectionate 
embraces, and the tears of love and gratitude 
moisten my cheek ; when, oh ! bitter inter- 
ruption, I am recalled from the blissful 
creation of imagination, to the painful, cruel 
reality, by my hired attendants reminding 
me of the necessity of taking my restorative 
drops. All the cold discomforts of a sick 
room, in a foreign land, and among stran- 
gers, rise up in soul-chilling contrast to the 
happy scene to which fancy had transported 
me, and tears of bitter disappointment and 
sorrow, dim my heavy and languid eyes. — 
Oh ! you dear and tenderly-loved friends, to 
whom my heart turns with such warm affec- 



THE DYING INVALID. 143 

tion, you will peruse this, when the hand that 
traced it is for ever motionless, and he whom 
you loved is consigned to his last earthly 
abode. 

You will pardon the unsteady lines ; you 
will understand why the blotted words are 
nearly obliterated. — Yes! yes! beloved 
friends, your tears will moisten the paper on 
which mine now fall; and even in death I 
shall not be forgotten. 



144 

PASSION AND SENTIMENT. 

AN ALLEGORY. 



x assion and Sentiment were once united, 
and for a short time enjoyed great felicity; 
but, like all ill-assorted unions, theirs was not 
of long duration. 

Passion grew tired of the mild graces of 
Sentiment, and Sentiment sought in vain to 
throw a veil over his defects, which became 
every day more glaring. 

They gave birth to twins, lovely as the 
first roses of spring ; and they named them 
Love and Memory. 

Love, like his father, possessed a thousand 
fascinations, joined to as many faults; while 



PASSION AND SENTIMENT. 145 

m 

Memory had all the amiable qualities of her 
mother, to whom she bore a strong resem- 
blance. Though their characters were so 
dissimilar, the sister and brother were much 
attached to each other. Love was part; to 
Memory, because she reminded him of many 
of his pleasures and triumphs; and Memory 
fondly regarded Love, because she gratefully 
remembered the happy days of their child- 
hood. Love, like his father, was fond of 
roving, and soon sated with the fruition of 
his wishes ; like Passion, too, he was selfish, 
and seldom considered the happiness of 
others : so that those who contributed to his, 
were often left to weep over their delusion. 

Memory mourned his faults, and w r ould 
have consoled his victims. But alas ! her 
presence only recalled him more forcibly to 
their minds ; and she only irritated the 



146 PASSION AND SENTIMENT. 

wounds which .she would have healed : so that 
in pity she endeavoured to avoid them, and 
followed the footsteps of Love ; who, finding 
that she continually reminded him of his 
cruelties and follies, fled her approaches, 
and shunned her remonstrances. Memory 
grieved at the unkindness of Love, and weary 
of witnessing his errors, sought consolation 
in the arms of Sentiment, who bestowed her 
hand on Virtue, with whom she enjoys a 
most blissful union; while Love has formed a 
league with Passion, and consumes his whole 
life in the pursuit of Pleasure, not, however, 
without sometimes giving a sigh to Memory, 
when he reflects that their pursuits and des- 
tinies are incompatible. 



147 



THE ABODE OF MEMORY. 



Memory, like an enchantress, reposes in her 
cell, guarded by the Muses, who have each 
a key to it. Every avenue to this abode 
possesses some peculiar charm : at one, the 
united odours of the most fragrant flowers 
are exhaled; and at another, the sounds of 
music steal on the ear in dying cadences. 
The breath of morn is here felt in all its 
balmy freshness, and the mild breeze of 
evening is pregnant with delicious musings. 

Though Memory reposes, she never 
sleeps; but indulging in heavenly contempla- 
tion, she appears abstracted from all around 
l 2 



148 THE ABODE OF 

her, until excited by some association pro- 
duced by the questions of the Muses, by the 
odoriferous perfumes, or by the strains of 
music floating on the air. 

The breath of morn never passes by her 
unheeded; and as the evening breeze is 
wafted by, a new character is given to her 
meditation. All the charms around her 
are necessary to her existence ; and tran- 
quillity is the state most congenial to her 
happiness. 

There is but one approach to the abode of 
Memory which is painful ; and that is the 
path of repentance, the key of the gate of 
which is kept by Conscience. 

The least noise at this entrance never fails 
to startle Memory, who punishes the unwel- 
come intruder by her sternest frowns. 



MEMORY. 149 

All who would seek the abode of Me- 
mory, or cultivate her regard, must seek her 
through the Muses, and be presented by 
Virtue. 



j, 3 



150 



A TRIBUTE TO FRIENDSHIP. 



It was intended that this little volume, should 
be dedicated to my late revered, and deeply 
lamented friend, Mrs. *****; but alas ! 
Death has snatched her from a world, to 
which her many amiable qualities rendered 
her an ornament. Instead of a dedication, 
the following Tribute to Friendship accom- 
panies this work. It is the effusion of a heart 
sorrowing for her loss, and deeply sensible 
of her virtues. 

* Of the rich legacies the dying leave, 
Remembrance of their virtues is the best." 

Never did the truth of the above beautiful 
sentence, strike me with such force, as when, 



A TRIBUTE TO FRIENDSHIP. 151 

after having given way to the first poignancy 
of regret for the loss of my beloved friend, 
my sorrows became soothed by the recol- 
lection of the many virtues, of which she was 
possessed; virtues, which, while they adorned 
her character, and rendered her an orna- 
ment and example in this life, rendered her 
also more worthy of that which is to come, 
seining to her sorrowing friends, as a gua- 
rantee of the bliss which she is gone to 
enjoy, and leaving behind her a remem- 
brance, that, like the essence of the rose, will 
survive long after the flower that gave birth 
to it has for ever faded. When we reflect 
that the only consolation which we can derive 
on the death of friends, must spring from the 
recollection of then virtues, surely it must 
act as the most powerful incentive to a ten- 
der heart to cherish those qualities, which, 
l 4 



152 A TRIBUTE TO FRIENDSHIP. 

while we live, dispense happiness to those 
whom we love, and console them when we 
are taken from them. 

Few human beings ever possessed more 
amiable qualities than Mrs. *****. Blessed 
w T ith a naturally strong understanding, she 
united with it a lively fancy, and brilliant 
imagination. Her memory was singularly 
retentive, and her taste exquisitely refined. 
To a mind highly cultivated, she joined a 
dignified simplicity of manners that rendered 
her alike fit for a court or a cottage. Those 
who were but slightly acquainted with her, 
would have thought the first her proper 
sphere ; but those who best knew, and loved 
her, would have felt that the domestic circle 
of the latter, where the heart expands itself 
to all around, was more congenial to her 
nature. 



A TRIBUTE TO FRIENDSHIP. 153 

Her talents and accomplishments, though 
various and excellent, may be described ; 
but her heart — how shall I praise that, which 
was above all praise ? It was the genial 
soil in which all the purest and best affections 
took root, and never withered; for to the 
latest period of her life, they flowered with 
unfaded freshness, extending their branches 
to husband, children, relatives, and friends. 



154 



FRAGMENTS. 



Youth should be clothed in the robe of innocence; 
and maturity should wear the garb of truth. 



CHILDREN. 

It is pleasing to behold the gradual expan- 
sion of the youthful mind. We may look 
upon children as little men and women, 
and trace in the former most of the pro- 
pensities of the latter; but, with all due 
respect to maturity, children are often much 
more entertaining : first, because there is in 
them a freshness of mind that gives elas- 



FRAGMENTS. 155 

ticity to their thoughts, and freedom to their 
actions ; and, secondly, because, though they 
have all the propensities of men and women, 
they have not, like them, the sense or cun- 
ning to conceal them. 

More depends on first impressions than 
people are aware ; and parents should, if 
possible, be more careful in the selection 
of their nurse-maids than of their gover- 
nesses. The former often lay the found- 
ation of evils, that the latter never can 
erase. It is in infancy they imbibe that 
most detestable of all mean vices, cun- 
ning, which engenders lying and deception ; 
and how often do w r e see a child emerge 
from the nursery, devoid of that freshness 
and simple purity, which constitute the 
greatest charm of infancy ! 



156 FRAGMENTS. 

" A child without innocence is like a 
flower without perfume," is, I believe, an 
observation of Chateaubriand's; and its truth 
has often struck me, when I have beheld 
the petty artifices so disgusting in children. 
If we believe, with Locke, that there are no 
innate ideas in the human mind, we may with 
him consider that of a child as a sheet of 
blank paper. But as it cannot long remain 
so, how careful ought we to be what characters 
first deface its unsullied purity ! — characters 
so often indelible; — and can we, or ought 
we, to permit them to be traced by a menial 
hand ? a hand perhaps stained by theft, and 
the ready minister to the crimes and vices of 
its owner. 

But allowing that the menials, to whom 
we trust our children, are not dishonest 
or vicious, how few of them are to be 



FRAGMENTS. 157 

found that are not ignorant and full of 
prejudices ; and what security have we 
that our children will not imbibe the latter, 
however we may, by education, guard 
against the former ? Who is it that cannot 
trace to the first impressions conveyed to 
then- minds by servants, the many false 
opinions and injurious prejudices of youth, 
which in after age they have found it so 
difficult to conquer entirely ? Beware, then, 
ye who are blessed with children, how ye 
abuse the treasures committed to your 
charge; and reflect, that on early impressions, 
depends much of the good conduct and 
happiness of your offspring. 



158 FRAGMENTS. 



SELF-CORRECTION. 



Every one who has reflected on his own 
errors, and the difficulty of correcting them, 
will be ready to exclaim with Belcour in the 
West Indian : " No one sins with more re- 
pentance, or repents with less amendment." 
It has often been urged, that when a person 
becomes truly sensible of his errors, he can 
correct them ; but this is a very doubtful 
point. The errors unfortunately become 
deeply rooted, before we are entirely con- 
vinced of their existence; and time has al- 
lowed them so to. spread, and entwine their 
fibres with our nature, that we can rarely 
eradicate them. 

I have seen spots of ground which produced 
large rushes, and which the owner has en- 



FRAGMENTS. 159 

deavoured to reclaim. The surface has been 
burnt without producing any effect; the 
rushes again protruded their heads. The 
earth has then been turned over; but in a 
few months the obstinate rushes have again 
appeared. At length, as a last resource, it 
has again been dug several feet deep, and a 
new soil laid on; and by this means the 
rushes have been banished. Such is the 
growth of evil passions in the human heart : 
you must dig deep, indeed, before you can 
exterminate their root ; and you must lay a 
new soil of virtue, to prevent a fresh growth 
of evil, — so prone is our nature to germi- 
nate evil passions. 

In eradicating the weeds from a spot once 
cultivated, but long neglected, how often do 
we find them so closely entwined with the 
flowers, that the one cannot be destroyed 



160 FRAGMENTS. 

without injuring the other : so it is with 
many of our errors ; they are so nearly 
allied to our good qualities, and long indul- 
gence has so closely united them, that the 
exertions necessary to destroy the one not un- 
frequently impair the other. 

ON SIMPLIFYING SCIENCE. 

I admire the good sense that leads a pro- 
fessor of any science to divest it of its terrors ; 
by which I mean the multiplicity of technical 
terms that encumber almost all our sciences, 
and act as bugbears to frighten away those 
who might have an inclination to study them, 
but who have not courage to encounter what 
appears so serious an undertaking. Those 
who simplify science render an essential 
service to the community, and ought to ex- 



FRAGMENTS. 161 

perience the gratitude of all the encouragers 
of arts and science. I am always impressed 
with a favourable opinion of the understand- 
ing and acquirements, of those who have the 
least pretension, and who are willing to com- 
municate what they do know with clearness 
and simplicity ; but the generality of people 
are so anxious to gain credit for their attain- 
ments, that they endeavour to mislead others, 
and to prevent them from being able to form 
a just estimate of the science, by encumbering 
it with difficulties that indolent people will 
not take the trouble to surmount. Di- 
vest the sciences of these unnecessary ap- 
pendages, and we shall have fewer instances 
of ignorance than are now daily to be met 
with ; and those who have only a superficial 
knowledge, will not receive the homage that 
is due only to proficiency. 

M 



162 FRAGMENTS. 

MISREPRESENTATION OF CHARACTER. 

If mankind would judge for themselves, 
and draw fair conclusions from facts, and 
from the lives and actions of persons ac- 
cused or suspected of crime, we should have 
fewer instances of misrepresentation and false- 
hood. But while people, from indolence, 
malice, or a disposition to credulity, give be- 
lief and publicity to every idle rumour, how- 
ever improbable it may be, or however con- 
trary to the former conduct of the person 
accused, we must expect that few events in 
the lives of men, will be fairly viewed or 
candidly recorded ; and, therefore, we should 
be cautious in condemning. 



FRAGMENTS. 163 

MENTAL IMPROVEMENT. 

It is pleasant when one is prevented a 
whole evening from reading, to make amends 
for it by amusing and instructive convers- 
ation ; for when we reflect how short is our 
span of life, and how much of that short span 
is consumed in sleeping, dressing, eating, and 
visits, with a long et cetera of frivolous amuse- 
ments, we have indeed but a short time for 
mental improvement. And how frequently 
is even that short time interrupted by dull, 
trifling, or petulant companions, who, with- 
out any mercy, break in on our time. 

We should, therefore, never omit an op- 
portunity of improvement ; for certainly the 
Almighty never intended, that the powers of 
mind with which he has endowed us were to 
be unemployed. The best way to ensure 
m 2 



164 FRAGMENTS. 

our own happiness, as well as to show our 
gratitude to our Creator, is to cultivate to the 
highest state of perfection the talents be- 
stowed on us, and to employ those talents 
usefully and honourably. 

POLITICS. 

I am no politician, thank God, and when 
I see the sad effects of politics which daily 
present themselves, I rejoice that my sex has 
placed a bar to my ever becoming a practi- 
cal, as my feelings preclude my becoming a 
theoretical politician. We see families di- 
vided, father against son, and brother against 
brother: who then that values domestic peace 
would barter it for politics ? People flatter 
themselves, that they can keep their public 
and private feelings apart; and that a differ- 



FRAGMENTS. 165 

ence in political opinions needs not interfere 
with private friendship. But they know little of 
the human heart who maintain this doctrine ; 
or, they who practise it must have less natural 
affection, or more self-command, than falls to 
the share of the generality of mankind. 

The more we regard a friend, the more 
anxious do we feel that he should do as we do. 
We are continually, even without design, 
endeavouring to bring him to our way of 
thinking, and at last our self-love, or pride, 
becomes a party, and feels hurt that our 
arguments have failed of producing conviction. 
The angry passions are excited, and the 
firmness or consistency of our friend, which 
in other subjects we should applaud, we now 
call obstinacy or bigotry. He probably sees 
our conduct with similar feelings, or else, 
perhaps, views it with patient forbearance, as 



J 66 FRAGMENTS. 

a weakness. Either view is alike detrimental 
to friendship. The former causes reciprocal 
coldness, and the latter carries with it a sense 
of superiority that is mortifying to our self- 
love. Hence, any difference of opinion on 
subjects which materially excite the passions, 
is injurious to friendship ; and politics, which 
so strongly stimulate them, are too often its 
bane. 



THE END. 



London: 

Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode» 

New- Street- Square. 






Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: March 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 







